


Call Off the Search for Your Soul

by deadwife



Series: It Happened One Summer [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Billy Hargrove Is an Asshole, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Season/Series 02, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, minor characters here and there but not enough to warrant any tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:00:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22354501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadwife/pseuds/deadwife
Summary: Billy never looks at him. Steve just looks at Billy, unwittingly, accidentally memorizing the shape of his spine, the distinct curve of his shoulders, the rhythm of his walk.Steve tries not to think about it.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: It Happened One Summer [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1609153
Comments: 59
Kudos: 181





	1. Call Off the Search for Your Soul

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a sequel to Bernie's Diner, and instead of just making another chapter I decided to make this a series and just keep adding works. 
> 
> Warning: this chapter does have some misogynistic and homophobic language, and there is full on DRUNK driving. Just as a disclaimer, I do not condone ANY of this behaviour in any way. This is how I imagine teen boys in a rural town in Indiana would behave in the 80's.
> 
> Title from "No. 1 Party Anthem" by Arctic Monkeys.

It’s January 1985 and there’s still five months until graduation.

Steve sits in the cafeteria, too cold and too slushy to go outside, picking at the school’s sorry excuse for pizza without eating it and hoping Nancy doesn’t notice. They’re talking about getting together this weekend to study. Midterms are creeping closer, and Steve hasn’t really been studying at all, so he agrees to meet up with Nancy and Jonathon on Sunday.

“There’s a party Saturday night.” Nancy says, a little chastising, a little condescending, like she thinks Steve will be hungover Sunday morning. She quirks an eyebrow at him when he tells her he’s not going.

Steve glares. “Nance, I haven’t been to a party in ages. And anyway, it’s Stacey Flemming’s party. Her parties blow.” He'd been invited by a couple of the guys and by a cute blonde in his Math class. It might have been tempting, but the last party he had gone to Nancy had told him their relationship was _bullshit bullshit bullshit_.

Nancy purses her lips, skeptical, as if she doesn’t even realize how much Steve has changed. Like she still thinks he’s the same asshole he was when they first started dating. He doesn’t let on how annoyed he is, and Jonathon gives him a smile like he knows how Steve is feeling.

The bell rings and Steve stands to leave before he can witness their farewell kiss. He walks back to his locker with something hammering in his ears. It gets to him out of nowhere sometimes, like a crack in the wall. He doesn’t know if he can keep doing it, keep pushing down the fury and betrayal and hurt every time he sees them, just because it’s easier than trying to go back to his life before Nancy. But Steve has never been great at hiding or denying his feelings—they’re buoyant inside him and no matter how deep he pushes them down they just swim back up the surface.

He could sit with someone else. It’s not like he lost _all_ his friends once he and Nancy started dated. He’s no longer friends with Tommy and Carol, but the rest of the guys still say _hey_ when they see him, still pat him on the back after practice, still invite him to parties, still chat idly with him in the locker rooms. It just isn’t the same. Steve isn't the same. Especially now that Billy is their new King, his presence so big and bright, Steve doesn’t think there’s even room for him anymore. That, and Steve made a habit of avoiding Billy right from the start, and all of Steve’s old friends are now Billy’s friends, too.

Billy still ignores him as if that night at Bernie’s never happened. He doesn’t talk to Steve, doesn’t even look at him, not in the halls, not during practice, not when they’re parked side by side at the arcade to pick up the kids. Steve expected nothing less, but still manages to feel the sting of disappointment.

He doesn’t want to look at Billy, either. He’s determined to ignore Billy right back, show him just how little Steve thinks about him. But his gaze always finds its way back to Billy, and each time, a small ember of hope, which somehow slipped past Steve’s notice, will die when Billy’s not looking back. Billy never looks at him. Steve just looks at Billy, unwittingly, accidentally memorizing the shape of his spine, the distinct curve of his shoulders, the rhythm of his walk.

Steve tries not to think about it.

He sits through English and History, his worst two subjects. The teachers are all trying to cram in the last of their sections before they have to start review for the midterms, and Steve can barely follow. He scribbles down everything the teachers say without fully listening, head cloudy with frustration and dread. He knows he’s going to flunk his midterms, and might even flunk the twelfth grade because he’s so goddamn lazy and stupid. He knows he should have started studying weeks ago, like Nancy did, and the thought of starting when there’s so much to get through makes his head spin. Part of him wants to ask Nancy to study with him, part of him would rather die than admit to being more pathetic than he already is.

By the time the final bell rings, it’s time for basketball practice and Steve doesn’t even look forward to it. He hasn’t in a long time, not since Billy, even though he hasn’t been as much of an asshole in months. Hasn’t really been since the night he nearly killed Steve. Probably realized he got his point across.

He changes quickly into his gym clothes. His moodiness must be apparent, because Tommy suddenly pipes in while Steve is shoving his school clothes into his locker.

“What’s the matter, Harrington? Still pining over Wheeler?”

Steve just ignores him, slams his locker and brings his foot up on the bench to tie his sneakers.

“Time to get over her, man. I’d lend you Carol, honestly, if it’d make you feel better.” He howls with obnoxious laughter, like he thinks it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. He looks to Billy, whose lopsided smile is half-hearted.

Steve wants to punch Tommy. Instead, with a bored, flippant tone, he says, "No one would ever want to fuck Carol except you, Tommy.”

Billy snickers, and Steve feel a little twist of satisfaction.

Tommy scowls, seeming genuinely offended. “Fuck you, Steve. You’d be _lucky_.”

“Why, did she offer? Probably wants someone who knows how to get her off for a change, huh Tom?”

Billy laughs again, along with a couple of the other guys lingering in the locker room, and Tommy turns red. Steve would laugh too, if he weren’t so irritable. He walks out on to the court before Tommy can reply.

He and Billy are always on opposite teams. To balance it out, the coach said once, because they’re both the best players. Billy still plays as hard as ever, like he’s got something to prove. But Steve has learned to plant his feet, and he plays twice as hard as he might have a few months ago, and today, he doesn’t feel like getting pushed around. He shoves hard into Billy, is no longer fazed by the press of Billy’s hot, sticky skin when he tries to block him. He runs fast, determination holding his focus in place. He catches Billy’s expression, hard and dangerous, like Steve has gotten under his skin.

Billy plays just as hard, socking him in the ribs with his elbow, and Steve responds with a hard knock with his shoulder. The coach has to blow his whistle a few times, threatens to bench them if they don’t stop.

“What the fuck, Harrington?” Billy mutters as he passes.

For the first time in a while, Steve’s team wins. His teammates clap him on the back and give him high fives, and it’s familiar and comforting, and the expression on Billy’s face makes Steve almost euphoric.

But Billy takes his time in the shower, and so does Steve. He almost wants a confrontation, wants Billy to face him with his full attention. He sees Billy in his periphery, lathering up at the shower across from Steve’s. Steve doesn’t look at him.

It’s Friday, so most of the guys are eager to get out and start their weekend. Billy and Steve are the last two in the shower. Steve almost wants a confrontation, wants Billy to face him with his full attention.

As if reading his mind, Billy wanders right up to Steve’s shower, stands right in front of him. Steve ignores him.

“Where’d all that fire come from today, Harrington?”

Steve takes his time answering. “I dunno. Just came out of nowhere.”

“Didn’t know you had it in you to play so hard.”

“Well, I’m full of surprises.” He talks like he doesn’t care, like this makes no difference to him. He can feel Billy’s eyes on him but he still doesn’t look.

“Got any other tricks up your sleeve, then?”

Steve looks. Billy’s not even under the water, he just stands across from Steve on the other side of the shower post. His eyes are amused and cruel like always, but there’s something a little more open about them this time.

Steve isn’t sure what to say, isn’t sure what he’s even saying at all. “I don’t know. Guess you’ll find out.”

Billy’s lips purse in a kind of smirk. “Will I?” His question sounds like a test.

Steve isn’t sure what’s happening, but suddenly it feels like they’re not talking about basketball. Steve becomes hyper aware that neither of them are wearing any clothes, and he feels suddenly very exposed.

So he just laughs, turns off his water and grabs his towel off the hook to cover himself with.

He begins toward the door to the locker room, and Billy’s right behind him, holding his towel limp in his hand with his waist still bare, with an almost smug grin like _he’s_ the one who got the upper hand. It tilts Steve off balance a little, but Steve pushes it down and continues to ignore Billy.

“Coming to that party this weekend?”

He's startled that Billy would ask. “Hadn’t planned on it.”

“Got other plans or somethin’?”

“I should really study for midterms.”

Billy snorts as he pulls his locker open. He pulls his towel off, reaches into his locker to get his clothes. Steve turns to close his own locker. “On a Saturday night? Didn’t peg you for a nerd, Harrington.”

“I have a lot of catching up to do.” When he turns back, Billy is facing him, looking at him. He’s got his briefs on, skin tight, and he’s stepping into his jeans.

“That’s bullshit. Come out on Saturday.”

Steve considers, begins to stroll casually towards the exit. “Stacey Flemming’s parties are always lame as shit.”

“No party is lame if I’m there.” Billy grins, and Steve lets his eyes linger on it. 

“Maybe.”

His grin widens. “Atta boy, Harrington.”

He spends most of the weekend studying. Puts on a pot of coffee when he gets home from school, stays up jotting notes as he goes through his World History textbook. Gets up Saturday at noon, practices math over an egg and cheese sandwich and two pots of coffee. Around six he rewards his efforts with a beer and a pizza and TV while he debates going to Stacey’s party. He can almost hear Nancy’s voice, gentle but chiding, warning him that it was a bad idea and having a clear head to study was better. He can see her face as she says it, looking him at like he’s an idiot, with that fond expression like she loves him anyway. An expression Steve used to kiss off her face.

Fuck it. He’s going.

The party isn’t very packed. Stacey fucking Flemming, that’s why. The house stinks like spilled beer and weed. Pop music blares, and he finds a few of his basketball buddies gathered in the cluttered kitchen. They seem surprised but pleased when they spot him, beckon him over with friendly smiles and offerings of beer in solo cups.

He spots Billy in the living room, crowding Angela Anderson into the corner. Steve is transfixed for a moment, watching the soft smile on Billy’s face as he leans in to whisper something in her ear, how Angela's face flushes as she bites back a smile. Steve feels of pang of something like envy, and he turns back to his conversation.

He runs into Beth Walker, the girl who sits beside him in Math who’d previously invited him. He’d told her _maybe_ with no real heart, no real interest. She’s definitely not his type, but Steve isn’t really sure what his type is anymore. She is beautiful, with bright blue eyes and a syrupy smile, an athletic figure with tits to brag about. She’s one of the cheerleaders, a year his junior. Her denim skirt shows off her long, lean legs despite that it’s the middle of Indiana winter.

Her face lights up when she sees Steve. "You made it!"

She stands close enough to smell her perfume and she laughs at his stupid jokes, her skin glittering with some kind of make up. He’s just tipsy enough to feel interested, to want to forget the consequences and just live inside the moment. He’s about to ask her if she’d like to go somewhere a little quieter, when her eyes drift behind him and her expression becomes slightly alarmed.

“Harrington!” It’s Billy, of course, grinning like a maniac. Steve feels a strong arm around his shoulder, hand squeezing his arm. “You showed.”

“Hey, buddy,” Steve smiles warily.

There’s something a little wild about him, as Steve takes him in. His skin is flushed, his eyes bright in a way he’s never seen before. There’s a manic energy emanating from him, as if he’s about to come unhinged, as if he’s buzzing just under his skin. There’s something a little devious too, a mischief in his madness. Steve shivers a little when Billy leans in, squeezing his shoulder hard.

“We’re getting fucked up tonight, Harrington. Drink up,” he offers Steve a can of beer, opens one for himself and takes a big chug. Steve does the same.

“Fuck yes, there he is. Bout time I met the King.” Billy laughs, wild and free and drunk, and gives Steve a little shake. With that, he turns and disappears back into the crowd of the party. Steve’s arm tingles where Billy’s fingers pressed into him. The party is so packed now they’re like sardines, and despite the frosty winter just outside, Steve is sweating.

Beth makes a little noise, startling Steve, who had momentarily forgotten she was there.

“I didn’t realize you guys were friends,” she says, surprised. “I thought you guys were like, mortal enemies or something.”

Steve just laughs. “I guess we used to be,” he says, but he’s not sure where they stand.

They move to the living room to dance, and it’s been a while since Steve has done this. He shakes all the stress and strain out of his body and lets himself feel the glow of the alcohol and the music. He dances with a few girls, until eventually he pulls away from the crowd because he’s getting thirsty.

He finds Beth on the couch and he follows. They sit in close and she shouts into his ear over the music and he gets the chance to stare down her shirt. They talk about nothing important, nothing interesting, but he drinks his beer and enjoys the sight of her and the smell of her. After what feels like hours, he asks her if she wants to go somewhere quieter to talk.

He catches sight of Billy on their way upstairs, and Billy gives him a vulgar wink behind Beth ’s back. Steve leads her into the master bedroom, leaves the door open as not to make her too nervous, keeps a bit of distance between them as he sits beside her on the bed. They talk, and it’s more intimate now that it’s quieter and he can hear the sound of her voice, soft like wind chimes. She scoots a bit closer to him, and her skirt bunches up around her thighs, and Steve leans in to kiss her. He caresses along her thighs, and she parts them hesitantly. He pulls away to see her face, to make sure she’s okay. She smiles, and Steve wishes he wanted her more. He reaches into her skirt and presses gently at the dampness there, and kisses her sweetly.

Her curfew is one, so afterwards, they go downstairs and she gets a ride with one of her friends. Once she’s gone, Steve wanders into the kitchen, where the guys are all still partying. Billy is chugging beers with Mikey Allan, and when Billy wins he pumps his fists into the air, the front of his white t-shirt see through from all the spillage.

“Come on, Harrington,” Billy beckons him over, and the rest of the guys cheer. Everyone is so drunk, Steve can tell by their wobbly stances and their slurred words. Steve stands with him and chugs. It’s a close one, but Billy wins.

“It’s only because most of it ends up on your shirt,” Steve complains, and bravely pokes his fingers into Billy’s chest, the fingers that still smell like Beth.

Billy pushes his hand away and calls him a sore loser.

They all shoot the shit in the kitchen, chugging the remains of the beer as they set up a game of beer pong, and Steve doesn’t remember how much he’s drank but he’s still great at pong and he’s having more fun than he’s had in months. It almost feels like things have gone back to normal—except for Billy, who serves as a constant reminder that things aren’t normal.

He doesn’t know what time it is by the time Stacey kicks them out, but there’s only a handful of them left. Most of the guys live nearby and can walk home within twenty minutes. Billy stumbles over to his Camaro. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Steve asks.

“’S look like?”

“You can’t drive like this.”

“Sure I can. Just watch.”

“C’mon, asshole, you’re gonna kill yourself.”

“Be doin’ Hawkins a favor. Want a ride?”

“Are you joking? I don’t wanna die.”

Billy laughs then, pulls out a cigarette. “I’m not that drunk, Pretty Boy, c’mon. I’m a great driver. And I’m your only ride, so you better get the fuck in before I change my mind.”

It will take an hour for Steve to walk home from this part of town, so against his better judgment, he finds himself in the passengers seat of Billy’s Camaro. He’s never been inside. The interior is all supple black leather, too soft to be brand new but clearly cared for. There is no clutter, it’s entirely polished and tidy to Steve’s surprise. The scent is unmistakably and overwhelmingly Billy—stale cigarettes, leather, and cologne.

He drives like a lunatic. This much Steve knew when he got in, but being in the car is an entirely different experience. Steve clings to the seat for purchase, the muttered swears lost in the raucous of Def Leppard.

“Can you be more careful?”

“Don’t be a pussy.”

“You’re drunk and it’s the _middle of goddamn winter_ , Billy. Is this your plan to finally kill me or something?”

Billy howls with laughter at that, unhinged and manic, and Steve feels a flutter of genuine fear.

“Alright, let me out, I’d rather walk than die in this fucking car with you.” Steve fumbles with the handle.

“Alright, alright, Jesus! You always such a girl, Harrington?”

Steve leans back into his seat, hand over his face as he massages his forehead. He’s starting to get the spins, and this is probably the worst place to get them. He reaches over and turns the music down. When Billy complains, Steve snaps, “I’ll puke if I have to listen to this shit.”

“You know, you’re awfully pissy for someone who just got laid.”

“I didn’t,” Steve says before he can really think it through.

“What? That chick was practically _begging_ for it!”

Steve sort of laughs at the disbelief in Billy's tone, like he was _that_ convinced Steve was going to have sex. “We got to second. I just wasn’t really in the mood.”

“To get _laid_?” Billy sounds so incredulous, Steve laughs again despite his self-consciousness.

“Hard for you to imagine, I’m sure.”

He sees Billy look at him in his periphery, but doesn’t look at Billy. He’s afraid he might be sick if he moves his head.

“You queer or something, Harrington?”

Stunned, this time Steve turns to glare at Billy. “Fuck you, Hargrove.”

“Relax, I’m just yankin’ your chain.”

“I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“Jesus, I told you I was only—“

Steve opens the car door and retches. He hears Billy shouting something about not getting puke on his baby, but Steve is too focused on his convulsing stomach and the burn in his throat to care. Billy swerves over to the side of the road and parks.

When Steve is finally done, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sits back into his seat. When Billy pulls back onto the road, muttering irritably, he drives at a more reasonable speed. Steve nearly nods off during the rest of the drive, and suddenly they're at his house and Billy is saying something.

Steve doesn’t want to move from where he sits. He looks lazily over at Billy. He can’t read Billy at all.

“How will I know if you make it home without crashing?”

“I made it this far, didn't I?"

“What if you die on your drive home?”

Billy looks at him then with a peculiar expression. “You’re such a fucking weirdo, Harrington.”

“I know, but what if you do?”

This time, when Billy turns his gaze on him, he looks uncharacteristically sombre. “You’ll hear about it in the papers.”

Steve shakes his head. “That’s fucked up.”

Billy smiles at him then, almost fondly. Or maybe Steve is just drunk. “Get out of my car, Harrington.”

Steve doesn’t want to, limbs feel much too heavy and he’s much too tired. He stares into the lit windows of the house, the lights he left on purposefully so he wouldn’t have to come home to a dark house. But the lights almost make it worse. He begins to ask if Billy wants to crash here, but thinks better of it.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“I owed you one.”

When Steve looks at Billy, he’s not looking at Steve. He’s looking out at Steve’s house like it’s interesting. It’s the first time either of them has mentioned that night, and it feels strangely sacrilegious. He wants to joke, _I think you actually owe me eight dollars_. But he doesn’t. He climbs out of the car like he weighs twice as much, bends to wish Billy a goodnight and to remind him not to crash on the way home.

He wobbles up the icy step to his front door, and Billy’s car is already gone when he turns to close it. He passes out on the couch as soon as he lies down.

Nancy is in disbelief the following morning. “Did you go to that party? The one you said you weren’t going to?”

Steve smiles sheepishly, head and throat feeling like they’re going to split open despite the two Advil. He’s sure he looks like death, didn’t even bother to shave his scruff or change out of his sweat pants. Nancy huffs and rolls her eyes, looks to Jonathon as if to say _can you believe this?_

They all settle into the living room to study, even though Steve would kill to just nap. Nancy’s mouth is taut across the table. Steve hates that taut mouth, and it takes work to shake it off, to remind himself that it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s not Nancy’s to be mad at anymore.

He only remembers the night in bits and pieces, mostly remembers having fun for the first time in months, remembers the cute blonde from Math, remembers Billy’s fond smile at the end of the night. It's enough.


	2. Passing Out Pieces of Me (don't you know nothin comes free)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re not friends. They’re not enemies, like perhaps they were before, but they’re not acquaintances, either. They defy categorization, and Steve thinks the English language needs to come up with some new terms to describe the relationships people can have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this story, so the tags and ratings may change as I write.
> 
> This chapter is super short, but a lengthier one is coming up next! 
> 
> Title is from Passing out Pieces by Mac DeMarco.

If he’d begun to hope after that night that things would change, it’s put to rest the following week. As before, Steve is more frustrated by his own hurt than by Billy’s indifference. He doesn’t even _like_ Billy, after all. Distantly, he wonders if Billy is trying to hurt him on purpose, as if he can sense how Steve feels, or if Steve is so insignificant in his mind that he genuinely doesn’t even notice him. He’s not sure which one is worse, and Steve shrugs off the thoughts like an unwelcome hand.

They’re not friends. This is Steve’s mantra, and he repeats it inwards at himself and to anyone else who asks. They’re not enemies, like perhaps they were before. They’re not acquaintances, either. They defy categorization, and Steve thinks the English language needs to come up with some new terms to describe the relationships people can have. It’s strangely intimate yet somehow so distant—unlike anything he’s ever had with anybody. And maybe that’s just how Billy is, like smoke—warm and mysterious and slipping through Steve’s fingers as he tries to hold on.

He doesn’t really talk to Billy again until Beth drags Steve to Pete Miller’s party a couple of weekends later. He and Beth are sort of dating, even though he’s only taken her to get milkshakes once and he hasn’t kissed her since Stacey’s. He moves to the balcony to get some space, and finds Billy smoking a cigarette. His nose and ears are pink from the cold, and he’s draped over the railing like it’s his throne.

Billy gives him an unreadable look as he approaches, and Steve is too drunk to play games.

“Can I bum a smoke?”

Billy wordlessly reaches into his pocket and offers his half-empty carton.

“Got a light?”

Billy turns to fully face Steve. He holds his cigarette between his lips, the cherry aglow as he juts out his chin in invitation.

Steve scoffs, shaking his head. He might be too drunk for games, but Billy’s not. But Steve secretly likes to play along, so he steps into Billy’s space, the heat of him radiating in the cold, and he holds his cigarette steady between his lips as he presses the end into Billy’s. He looks at Billy while he does it, and Billy looks right back.

He steps back once its lit. He considers remarking on Billy’s stubbornness, but figures Billy’s probably trying to provoke exactly that. So he keeps quiet, smokes his cigarette as Billy smokes his.

When the silence is about to stretch on for too long, Mikey Allan and Tommy appear. Steve is both relieved and an annoyed by their intrusion. Mikey asks for a lighter, and Steve watches with a start as Billy pulls a lighter of his coat pocket and simply hands it to Mikey to light himself, without looking at Steve. The four of them chat idly, about exams, about the cold, about Mrs. Hanlon’s tits in English class. Billy remains silent, subdued, in his usual calculating way as if he couldn’t lower himself to be part of their conversation. Steve tries to ignore him, tries to fit into his old role of King like a pair of jeans that no longer fit.

“Where’s Carol?” Steve asks, just for something to say. As if on cue, Beth appears at the door and comes onto the balcony.

Tommy sighs, and Mikey pats him on the back. “She’s pissed at you, isn’t she?”

Billy snickers, looking at Steve, like they’re in on a joke together.

“She’s always pissed. Beth,” Tommy turns his attention to her at Steve’s side. “From the female perspective, why are you girls always so fuckin’ pissed all the time?”

Beth laughs easily, grins around Steve’s cigarette, which she stole for a couple of puffs. “Probably because we have to put up with you idiots all the time.”

Tommy seems taken aback by her answer, which pleases Steve. Billy is looking right at Steve.

“What do _we_ do?”

“Why don’t you ask your _girlfriend_?”

“I did. She won’t tell me.” Tommy laughs, loud and barbaric, and Mikey and Billy and Steve laugh along, too.

Beth touches the watch on Steve’s wrist. “It’s almost one. I have to go,” she looks up at Steve with a sheepish little pout, one that makes Steve think he could really like her. She turns to the guys, explains, “strict parents,” and disappears back into the house.

“You sure like ‘em feisty, don’t you, Stevie?” Tommy grins like an ape.

“Apparently,” he offers half-heartedly.

Tommy keeps laughing, calls her _Nancy 2.0._ Steve is nearly livid at the title but doesn’t want to spur Tommy on so he keeps quiet.

To Steve’s surprise, it’s Billy who pipes in. “Jesus, can you stop talking about Wheeler all the time? I’m sick of hearing about that bitch.”

Steve looks at Billy, irritable and aloof, wonders if he knows what a mercy he just bestowed on Steve. Tommy’s mouth clicks shut, and just circles back to complaining about Carol, and Steve can’t remember why he kept them around as friends for so long.

“Jesus, Tommy,” Steve spits. “Just bring her to the bathroom and go down on her, for Christ’s Sake.”

“Yeah, she’s got like a yeast infection or something.”

“Tasty,” Billy says, and they all laugh. “Just fuckin’ dump her already, man.”

“I should probably go find her,” Tommy admits sheepishly. “She’s probably just getting more pissed by the second.” Defeated, he trudges back into the house, Mikey trailing behind him with a supportive hand on his shoulder, leaving Steve and Billy alone.

Billy’s on his second cigarette, and Steve is finished his. Without a cigarette, without an excuse to be outside, alone in the cold with Billy, Steve feels suddenly exposed. They don’t talk, and Steve doesn’t know whether to look at Billy or not. He feels Billy’s eyes on him when he looks away, sees Billy just avert his gaze once Steve looks up to him.

“Those two will never break up,” Steve says just to say something.

“Oh yeah?” Billy only sounds half interested, like he doesn’t really want to talk to Steve.

“They’ve been going out since seventh grade. They’re gonna get married after high school and have a bunch of kids.”

Billy snorts. “Sounds like everyone in this town, doesn’t it, Pretty Boy? Including you.”

The disdain in Billy’s voice catches Steve off guard. It’s especially raw because a few months ago, that’s exactly what Steve had hoped he would do. “Who d’you think I’m gonna marry?”

Billy shrugs, nods in the direction of the house. “What about Wheeler 2.0? She seems like a good match for you, Pretty Boy.”

Steve glares, and Billy watches Steve with cool malice as he holds the cigarette to his lips.

“Her name is _Beth_. You have a problem with her or something?”

Billy shakes his head, mouth lifting into a mean smile. “Like I said, she’s a great match for you.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say, feels like he’s missing the insult.

A gust of wind rattles the balcony, and Billy shudders.

“Do you seriously not have a winter coat yet?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I just don’t understand why’d you choose to be cold all the time.”

“I’m not dropping all that money for a coat I’ll use for one winter, Harrington. Money doesn’t just grow on a tree, at least not for me.” The insinuation is pointed.

Steve doesn’t really think it through before he speaks. “Well, why don’t you borrow one of mine?”

Billy seems taken aback for a fleeting moment, and then his lips contort into some terrifying grimace-smirk hybrid. “I’m not your fucking charity case, _Princess_.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like?” His words sharp like the blade of his eyes, and he seems to loom closer to Steve in the darkness of the porch. He blows smoke in Steve’s face. Steve turns his face away.

“It’s like I have ten fucking winter coats that I never wear and they’re just sitting in my closet.”

Billy examines Steve, and he thinks maybe Billy is considering it, but he doesn’t like the look on Billy’s face. Steve regrets opening his mouth.

“I never realized how much of a knight in shining armor you are, Harrington.”

“Does that make you my damsel in distress?”

Steve should have seen it coming, but the hit catches him off guard. It’s not as hard as it could have been but Steve still feels the disorientation, the explosion of pain in his mouth.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he mutters. When he can look up again, Billy is _right there_.

“You like testing me, Harrington? It seems like you do.”

“What the fuck is your problem? I thought we were _cool_.” Steve shoves him back with his forearm, other hand at his numbing mouth.

Billy’s grin makes Steve’s spine crawl. “We’ll never be cool, Harrington.”

The hit wasn’t hard enough to bruise, left only some tenderness and some swelling the following days. They fall back into ignoring each other, this time more pointedly than before. They don’t look at each other, not when they run into each other at parties, not when they see each other picking up the kids, not even during practice. It’s a little bit harder when they’re playing basketball, but Billy manages to do an excellent job of it. Steve, heavy with something akin to betrayal and shame, maybe even loss, although he doesn’t know what exactly he lost, is accustomed to the new fact that he and Billy will never be anything other than enemies.

What strikes him the most is how easily they swing from friendship to hostility. How their steps towards harmony come reeling back suddenly, until they’re even farther apart than where they were to begin with. It feels like Billy is two different people, and Steve is ever sure which one he’s going to get.

Two weeks later, Steve’s phone rings. It’s a Saturday night and he’s home alone, only half tempted by Dustin’s invite to the Wheeler’s to come over for movie night. The only thing less pathetic than hanging out home alone on the weekend is hanging out at your ex’s house with her kid brother and all his friends, so he passed.

He rises from the couch, where he’d sat with his hand on his crotch watching Body Heat. He’s annoyed to have to get up and answer the phone, but knows it’s likely his mother. She hasn’t called in four days.

“Hello?”

There’s a beat of silence, before a familiar voice makes Steve’s heart stand still. “Harrington.”

“Billy?”


	3. Cold Wind Blowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But Neil’s eyes are cold when he looks at Billy, merciless and indifferent like Billy is no more than a than a rock in his shoe, and when he locks his fist around Billy’s wrist like he wants to snap it, his heart race is chillingly slow.
> 
> Billy would rather face the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was planning to write this fic entirely from Steve's perspective, but then I wrote this so here we are. 
> 
> I promise that Steve and Billy will get together eventually, I just LOVE the slow build.
> 
> Also, a warning. 
> 
> Billy struggles with a lot of internalized homophobia, and that is represented in this chapter. If this is something you're uncomfortable with, don't read. 
> 
> There are mentions of child abuse and neglect, but nothing explicit.
> 
> The title (because ALL my titles are from songs because I'm lazy) is from Cold Wind by Arcade Fire.

Billy hates the cold.

He first came to Indiana at the end of summer. Indiana heat is heavy, clings like a wet blanket. It’s nothing like the heat back home, and the people here gawk at him like he’s a _specimen_ , like they’ve never seen anything like him before. As the girls watch in their identical last-season outfits and the pallid pot-bellied teachers eye him like they’re already unimpressed, Billy thinks they probably haven’t. He’s the most foreign thing this town has ever seen, and it’s kind of thrilling to be the star, to be under the gaze of intrigue like he’s something special. But it wears off quick, once the novelty of the new kid dissipates and he becomes part of the scenery, and all that’s left is the disingenuous small-town civility and the creeping feeling that he’ll never belong.

That feeling isn’t unique to Hawkins, but it feels magnified here, between the clutch of the trees and the heavy grey sky. The townsfolk attend church every Sunday morning, vote conservative for every election, gossip about their neighbors over the breakfast table. It’s the type of town that keeps no secrets but for what hides in the trees. Everybody knows everybody here, knows the family trees and the criminal records and relationship history. Billy knows everything now, too. Back home, Billy could disappear into a crowd of strangers and become a nobody, hide in the cloak of anonymity. But there’s no such thing as a stranger in a place like Hawkins.

But that’s part of the plan. With a town full of eyes, Neil doesn’t have to wonder where his son goes late at night. In a town like this, where the restaurants close at eight, where he can count the number of bars on one hand, where parents peak out their kitchen windows and recognize every pedestrian, Billy can’t get into any trouble.

Hawkins is the closest place to Hell in America. He knows because he was brought here as punishment, and every day is as torturous as the next. He knows because time slows down in Hawkins, like it’s an entirely different dimension. Time is heavy, like the air is heavy. Sometimes he dreams that he is in Hell, that he sees the bright light of Graduation looming in the distance, but when he tries to run towards it his feet are stuck to the ground, or he moves so slowly it’s he’s running through water, and he knows he’ll never get there in time. When Billy wakes up, the feeling lingers.

But time does pass, somehow, the days like weeks and the months like years.

He knew winter was coming, and it came, gradually. His first snowfall, Billy was privately kind of awed, and he thought that maybe the winters weren’t so bad after all. But it only got colder and colder, until the temperature fell below freezing and stayed there, and Billy could no longer stand to be outside. The cold, like the heat of summer, like everything in Hawkins, is heavy. It clings to him like it’s inside his skin, and even coming inside into a heated building isn’t enough to shake the chill. He doesn’t have a winter jacket, never needed one in San Diego. Susan’s mentioned it, but Neil says Billy can buy one when he earns the money for it, even though he doesn’t let Billy work during the school year.

That’s his choice of violence.

He doesn’t hit Billy often, only on _special occasions_. He resorts to small kinds of violence, the passive kind. It’s almost worse than the slaps and shoves. He throws looks and words sharp as knives, the cuts undetectable to the human eye, and sometimes Billy wishes for a slap instead. It’s less frequent with Max and Susan around, because he doesn’t go very far when Max is there. But it’s almost worse, because now he _waits_. Billy waits for him to twist the bedroom doorknob, close the door behind him.

Sometimes, like tonight, he just tells Billy to get out, and Billy is relieved for the chance to escape. But it’s a double-edged sword, like all of Neil’s mercies.

It’s below freezing and all he’s wearing is a hoodie and a denim jacket, like he’s hoping Billy will freeze to death in the snow, like it was no one’s fault but Billy’s for being stupid enough to go out there dressed in _that_ all night.

He feels cold and alone and small, like there is no Hawkins at all, just him and the ice and snow. He’s thankful for once for Susan, who gave him wool socks and a pair of gloves for Christmas. His toes are still cold under the leather of his battered army boots and his fingers are numb almost as soon as he’s outside. The tips of his ears feel like they’re on fire, and the wind blows flames into his face. So cold it’s _scalding_.

But Neil’s eyes are cold when he looks at Billy, merciless and indifferent like Billy is no more than a than a rock in his shoe, and when he locks his fist around Billy’s wrist like he wants to snap it, his heart race is chillingly slow.

Billy would rather face the snow.

So that’s how he ends up at a McDonalds restaurant a mile from his house in blustering flurries, nose running and clothes soaked, sitting in a booth warming his hands with a cup of twenty-cent coffee. He drains it as if it were a shot, scalding his tongue, and saunters up to the counter to ask if he can use their phone. The kid says it’s against company policy, but Billy just lets his eyes burn into the kid until he passes the phone along.

His fingers are full of pins and needles as the feeling returns, and they tremble as they carefully dial the number scribbled on a crumpled napkin he found flattened at the bottom his pocket. It’s the last thing he wants to do, almost, but the McDonalds closes in twenty minutes and he doesn’t think he can walk back into the night without anywhere else to go.

“Hello?” Harrington sounds hoarse, as if he’d been sleeping.

He feels a rush of something—discomfort, or shame, or maybe even guilt— but he easily pushes it down. “Harrington.”

“Billy?” He’s bewildered.

“Yeah, it’s me. Can I come over?”

“Uhh—I guess?”

“You have to come get me.”

There’s a long pause, during which Billy thinks Steve might have hung up. “Are you kidding?”

Billy says nothing, and waits for Harrington to hang up, tell him to fuck off, tell him he’s not driving out in this weather. Not for _him_.

“Where?”

Billy releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “McDonalds on Stenlake.”

Steve sighs on the other end. “Yeah, alright. I’ll leave in a minute.”

Billy instinctively considers hanging up first without a word, but thinks better of it. “You’re the man, Harrington.” His tone sounds facetious even to himself.

“Whatever.” He hangs up.

Billy replaces the receiver, and turns to the kid behind the counter. “You guys do free refills?”

“No.”

“Aren’t you just gonna throw it all out anyway?”

The kid looks so fucking insolent Billy wants to hit him. “Someone else might order some.”

“Who would order coffee this late?”

“You did.”

He can’t argue with that, so he just rolls his eyes and returns to his booth by the window to wait. Something churns in him and he tries not to think about it.

But of course his mind plays over Harrington like a spider wrapping its prey in silk.

He thinks of his eyes, dark and wide like a doe’s, thinks of the delicate slope of his cupid’s bow and the pale pink lips underneath, thinks of the sheet of chest hair and how it whittles down past his bellybutton.

Thinks of how his face felt under Billy’s fists, soft skin over bone, the night Billy almost killed him. How his face looked at school the following week, swollen with bruises like paint, and how Billy didn’t want to look at him even though he still found his gaze lingering there.

Billy knows he’s bad. He learned that from his father. Learned it when his mother left him. Learned it when he was ten and Ryan Mantle’s parent only gave him gentle scolding when he broke their living room lamp. Learned it when he was fourteen and kissed Timothy Bloom, and nothing with a girl had ever come close to the magic he felt.

It’s his destiny, laid out before him like a blueprint. It’s in his blood, in his soul, a disease that rots from the inside out.

Sometimes he almost convinces himself that faking it will make it true. He likes women, after all. He likes the sweet smell of them, and the softness of their skin. When they laugh and look at him like he’s something, he feels good. When he fucks them, he thinks, _this isn’t so bad_. They’re always so eager to please him, and in return so easy for Billy to please. But he always ends up letting them down easy, too afraid to keep them around in case they see the truth; the truth, like the odor under the air freshener, the undercurrent of _wrongness_ like wearing your shoe on the wrong foot.

He knows it’s just a pipe dream. He can lie to everyone, even to himself, but the truth always finds its way out. That’s why he’s here, in Hawkins, Indiana. And it’s some kind of cruel irony that Neil dragged him across the country to butt-fuck nowhere in the hopes of curing his son of _the sickness_ , only for Billy to discover the most beautiful boy the world had to offer.

The Beemer pulls up outside, headlights shining through the sheet of falling snow.

If Hawkins is Hell, Billy thinks Steve Harrington might be the Devil.

He climbs into the car and slams the door with force. He doesn’t look at Steve. He feels too stupid to look at Steve. Instead, he turns the heat up on blast even though it’s already warm in the car, lights up a cigarette, just to have something to do with his hands.

Steve says nothing, just drives the Beemer back onto the road, now white with snow.

The blast of the heater and the screech of the wipers are the only sound as they drive. Steve’s silence feels pointed. Billy steals a glance from his periphery. Steve’s eyes don’t stray from the road, his hands firmly gripping the wheel as the car slides over the slush. He drives slow and steady. He doesn’t look at Billy, doesn’t speak, doesn’t even have any music on. They sit in silence, with each other and nothing else.

His silent treatment, like he didn’t _choose_ to come get Billy, and maybe the fact that he’s pathetic enough, privileged enough, to do this favor for Billy makes him hate Steve a little. Hates that Steve is kind in a way that Billy never could be, and that he has the audacity to feel superior about it.

He lights up another cigarette, fiddles with the radio to fill the silence, but the snow interferes with the connection and everything mostly sounds like static. Steve tells him there are tapes in the glove compartment. His voice is slow and emphatic, like Billy’s an idiot. Billy picks through them, and finds nothing worth listening to.

“Why is your taste in music so fuckin’ putt?”

“Oh, sorry, I must have left all my death metal at home.”

Billy is surprised by how funny Harrington is in the few moments they’ve had, but Billy makes a show of his sneer.

Steve indicates left after a while of driving up Bluebell Bend, a long stretch of wooded road known for its extravagant houses. Billy has seen the Harrington house a couple of times but he’s never been inside.

The inside is all cream and mahogany, modern furniture and minimal decoration in a way that makes Billy think Steve parents have little taste despite their money. It’s not cluttered, barely feels lived in, and Billy gets the sense of being in a museum, like his voice will echo and he’s not allowed to touch anything. The only detail to indicate that someone lives here at all is Steve’s dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. But he makes himself at home, feet sinking into the lush white carpet as he wanders around the downstairs.

“So,” Billy starts, examining the ostentatiousness of the kitchen—even the fucking dishwasher is wood-paneled. “Got anything to drink around here?”

Steve pulls out two beers, the labels Billy doesn’t recognize. Billy chugs the whole thing in seconds, sets the empty bottle down with a loud clink. Harrington still isn’t looking at him, and Billy wants to crawl out of his skin. He grabs another beer out of the fridge without asking, wanders into the hall, remarking on the lovely shade of cream his mother picked out for the walls. The TV flickers in the living room, like Steve had been watching TV before he left to get Billy. In the living room is an impressive ivory piano and a towering bookshelf, and over the fireplace is a mantelpiece with an array of framed pictures.

Billy steps closer to examine them, ignoring Steve’s presence behind him; one wedding portrait of an austere looking groom and a lovely bride who bears a striking similarity to Steve, another of an awkward pre-teen Steve holding up a fish nearly the length of his body, his father beside him giving a thumbs up. Billy grabs a school portrait of second grade Steve, all nose and bare gums and dated haircut. He shows it to Harrington. “Haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

Steve just leans on the doorframe. Billy gets the sense that he’s being babysat.

“You’re dripping all over my mom’s carpet.”

Billy looks down, and Steve is right. “That’s not the only thing I’ll drip on your mom’s carpet.”

“Gross.”

Billy turns to face him, stiffly crosses his arms in his heavy, sopping clothes. “Well, give me something to wear if you’re gonna complain about it.”

Steve leads him upstairs. Steve brings him to his bedroom, which is just as predictably basic as Billy expected. Harrington goes to his dresser and pulls out a pair of sweats, a hoodie, socks and boxers, and shoves the pile to Billy. He doesn’t look Billy in the eye—hasn’t since he picked Billy up.

Billy tosses the pile onto Harrington’s bed and wastes no time stripping off all his clothes. He feels a little thrill when he notices Harrington turn pink, and he knows he’s playing a dangerous game. It’s one thing to rile him up at school, another to do it alone in his bedroom. He can’t help it. But Steve starts towards the door to give Billy some privacy, muttering something about the dryer being downstairs if he wants to dry his clothes.

“Thanks for the tighty-whities,” he says, pulling Steve’s too-small underwear up around his hips. “You sure you don’t mind?” He stops and points to the briefs on himself, just to watch Steve blush from the doorway. It works beautifully, and Steve just rolls his eyes and tells him to stop showing off.

“Hoodie and sweats? Don’t scam me, Harrington, I know you have something nicer for me to wear.”

“That’s all you get.”

“What happened to all that Harrington generosity?”

Steve’s eyes narrow. “I didn’t think you wanted it.”

And Steve’s got him there.

So he grins big, and he roots around Steve’s closet until he finds the Levi jeans Steve wears all the time. He doesn’t know what compels him to wear Steve’s clothes—maybe spite, maybe a need for power—he doesn’t question it, just pulls out a luxurious blue sweater he knows will match his eyes. He pulls on Steve’s clothes while Steve watches from the doorway, eyes big and mouth taut.

Steve’s clothes are a touch too tight, but Billy doesn’t mind the discomfort because he knows his ass probably looks amazing in Steve’s jeans. “This is more like it.”

“One step closer to stealing my entire life?”

“Please, Harrington, I don’t want your life. I only take what you’re not using, right? Besides,” he presses, “if I really wanted your life, Wheeler would have dumped you for _me_ , not Byers.”

Steve’s expression is quiet fire, like that night at Byers’ when Billy nearly killed him. It’s the kind of look that thrills Billy, that gets his heart pumping.

“Do you want me to kick you out?”

Billy smiles. “You won’t. You’re too _nice_. You’re my knight in shining armor, remember Harrington?”

Steve sneers and shakes his head, like he can’t believe Billy. It’s a reaction he gets a lot. “Why are you such a fucking asshole all the time?”

“’Cause it’s just so much fun to rile you up, Harrington. It’s almost too easy. So what kind of yuppie snacks you got in here?” Billy walks out of Steve’s room before the exchange can go on any further.

Billy picks through Steve’s cupboards, finds them stocked full of snacks, as he expected. He had his supper already but Billy doesn’t resist the temptation of free food. He helps himself to Cheez Balls and Cosmic Brownies, and plows through the seemingly endless stock of Belgian imported beer that Steve’s father drinks like water. They watch reruns of Magnum PI in tense silence, Billy sprawled on the couch like he owns it and Steve tucked into the opposite corner. They’re not at ease in each other’s company, but Billy is good at pretending. Steve isn’t.

Steve eventually runs upstairs and returns with a jar of green buds. Billy watches Steve grind it up, pour it into the paper.

“I hope you know how to roll,” Billy says.

“I’m not an idiot, I know how to roll a joint.” He grinds up a couple of buds, the pungent scent filling the room, and he packs it into the paper and begins to roll. His slender fingers are deft and practiced. The paper sticks to the film of oil on his fingertips, but he rolls it masterfully. His finger nails are neat, his hands unmarred. Privileged hands, but nimble and strong, movements sure and practiced. He brings it up to his mouth, shining tongue darting out to lick the smooth end, and he tucks the joint into a smooth bat.

“Look at that. You can roll.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

Billy looks at his face. There’s nothing to read there, and it’s probably all just wishful thinking, but sometimes Billy could _swear_ that Harrington is _flirting_ _back_.

Billy watches Steve light up, watches his lips pucker around the joint, cheeks hollow out as he sucks out the smoke. He passes the joint to Billy, careful not to brush fingers. It’s damp where Steve had it in his mouth.

Billy’s knee presses against Steve’s. It feels like an electric current passes through them, and Billy’s heart races at the contact. He doesn’t move it, and neither does Steve. Billy counts it as a small victory.

They pass the joint back and forth in front of the TV, where the washed out pictures just serve as background noise more than anything.

Their conversation is half-hearted and forced, but they talk about school and their plans for the summer. Billy tells of his plan to work all summer and leave after he turns eighteen in August. Steve has no plans other than to work, despite that he wouldn’t need to pay his tuition anyway, and despite that he doesn’t even think he’ll get into any colleges because of his poor grades.

Billy steers their conversation towards girls, because it’s always a safe topic. Billy brags about nailing Angela Anderson and Pam Chase, even though it’s only a half-truth. Steve seems reluctant to talk about it, especially when he finally admits he hasn’t slept with Beth yet.

"You seriously still hung up on Wheeler?” Billy asks, because he can’t help it. Because as much as everyone razzes Steve about Wheeler, Billy still doesn’t really know, doesn’t really get it. And maybe it’s because he will never really _get it_ , but this time he can’t even see it if he squints. Maybe he just wants to understand Steve a little better. Maybe he wants the intimacy of Steve sharing his secrets. Maybe a small, stupid part of him is hopeful—or maybe masochistic.

He doesn’t know why he needs to hear it. He just knows he needs it.

Steve just shrugs, in a way that signals he does not want to talk about it.

“She got a magic pussy like everyone says?”

Steve cringes, as if what Billy said causes him physical anguish. It makes Billy chuckle. “What is wrong with you?”

“There’s gotta be something about her, if you ditched everything for her, and stuck around after she dump you for the school freak.”

Steve stares at the television. “What’s it to you?”

Billy shrugs. “I’m curious.”

“It’s complicated.”

“So explain it to me.”

Steve examines him for a moment, calculating whether or not to trust him. He must decide to trust Billy, because he takes a sobering breath. “When I started dating Nancy, I was this giant asshole—”

“Like me.”

“Not quite as bad as you, but yeah.” Steve smiles a little, and Billy kicks him playfully, gets a little rush. He leaves his foot by Steve, his toes just grazing Steve’s thigh. If Steve notices, he doesn’t say anything.

Billy listens wordlessly as Steve calls Nancy Wheeler things like _genius_ and _brave_ and _compassionate_ , listens to how she turned his life inside out, how it made him realize he’d been living his life all wrong. Listens to him say he can never hate her, he was just standing in the way of two people who belong together, and that despite it all, they’re the best friends he ever had. He gets this soft, faraway look in his eye as he speaks, tells Billy all this in a chaotic ramble, impassioned and thoughtful, like they were thoughts in his head for so long that he never got to say out loud.

He almost deflates afterwards, the weight of his rant finally off his chest.

There’s a long pause, during which Billy digests Harrington’s spiel with feelings he can’t name. Finally, he just laughs. “Dude, that’s fucking sad.”

Steve looks like he’s about to get pissed, but then he laughs with Billy, deep and from the belly, and it makes Billy laugh harder. It feels strange to laugh freely with Harrington like this, like they’re friends. It feels good.

“You’re such a pussy, Harrington,” Billy says without heat. He doesn’t let himself linger too much on Steve’s confession. Doesn’t let himself yearn or envy, doesn’t let himself dwell on the fact that no one could ever love Billy as unconditionally as that.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

Steve gives him a sly look. It’s a good look on him, Billy thinks. “Ever fallen in love like that?”

Billy forces a laugh. “Guys like me don’t do that, Harrington.”

Steve nods, as if he expected as much, but he’s smiling. “I’m sure it’ll happen to you one day.”

Billy scoffs and picks at the label on his beer. “Not in Hawkins. Girls here are all _bumpkins.”_

“They are not.”

“Oh yeah? Who’s your best lay around here?”

Steve opens his mouth hesitantly.

“If you say _Wheeler,_ I’m going to fucking puke.”

Steve shakes his head. “No. Lori Bauchman.”

“Who?”

“She graduated last year, you just missed her. I can show you in the yearbook if you wanna check her out. She was—“ Steve just shakes his head, reminiscing.

Billy smiles with him. “What? What she’d do?”

“She was just crazy, man. She had like, _no_ gag reflex. It was awesome.” Steve blushes, and laughs so sincerely it makes Billy smile.

“Fuck yeah.”

“You?”

“In Hawkins?” Billy sighs dramatically, while a little idea squirms its way into his head. “If I had to pick… Trish Traverse.”

Steve gapes. “ _Trish_? No way.”

“Yeah, dude, she’s a freak. She was up for _anything_ ,” he winks just to watch Steve flush.

“Anything, like…?”

Billy leans in conspiratorially, holding Steve’s gaze, speaking low. He knows this will be good. “She let me fuck her in the ass.”

Billy watches with complete ecstasy as Steve’s eyes widen, as his face flushes a deep pink. He’s likely never given such a thing a single thought.

“I didn’t think girls in real life… _did that_.”

Billy sits back, pleased. He examines Steve closely. “They don’t really, especially here. ‘Cept Trish.”

Steve ponders this, amazed. “Shit.”

“There was none of that.”

Steve makes a face, while Billy leers. “Uhg, gross, dude.”

“You should try it sometime, Harrington. It’ll change your life.”

Steve shrugs. “How’s it any different?”

Billy leans in slowly, trying to build up the anticipation. He licks his lips, watches as Steve’s eyes follow. “It feels amazing. Tighter than any pussy you’ll ever fuck.”

Steve is leaning towards Billy, his eyes dark and intent, watching Billy’s face like it’s something interesting. Billy feels himself get a little hard, and he wonders if Steve is, too. He doesn’t dare glance.

“But—isn’t it kinda gross? And like—I don’t know, _painful_? For the girl, I mean.”

Billy shrugs. “Yeah.”

Steve seems surprised by his answer, but he gives something like a nervous laugh. Billy can tell he’s a little bit uncomfortable. He tries not to grin, just sits watching Steve.

“So girls in California—they do stuff like that all the time?”

Billy shifts in his seat. “Oh yeah. Girls in California are complete sluts, and ten times hotter than the ones here.”

Steve’s gaze changes, and suddenly he looks a little bit careful, and Billy’s bracing himself before he even registers it.

“So… why did you leave?”

Billy studies Steve’s face for a moment, before flicking his gaze down to his own hands.

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

When Billy looks at Steve, his face is open and earnest, and his eyes are so big and dark Billy feels in danger of falling right into them. He thinks he could trust those eyes, and that thought sends him reeling backwards.

But Steve opened up to him, and Billy’s feeling uncharacteristically generous, so he thinks fast.

“Neil caught me smoking some shit, with some—questionable people. So he brought me to fuckin’ rural Indiana to get me away from it.”

Steve nods. “That wasn’t so long.”

“Yeah, guess not.”

Billy can feel Steve studying him, but doesn’t feel like going into any more details. They sit in an uncomfortable silence before Billy breaks it.

“I’m bored.”

Steve grins. “Wanna play video games?”

Steve brings him down to the basement rec room, where he’s got a Nintendo with five different games to choose from, and even though Billy teases him for being such a nerd, he’s actually excited. He picks Super Mario Bros because it’s the newest. Steve is a much better player, and Billy taunts him for being so well practiced.

They play until they’re sleepy, and Steve tells him there’s a guest bedroom if he wants to sleep. The idea for some reason makes him squirm, so he suggests they go back to the living room to watch a movie. There’s a massive selection of VHS’ in the Harrington basement. Steve refuses to watch the horrors Billy selects, so he picks Monty Python and The Holy Grail. They settle on the coach, and Billy falls asleep before the opening credits are over.

He wakes to sunlight showering in through the window, and he’s in the same spot on the couch but he’s got a blanket over him. Harrington’s not there. Billy rises slowly, his neck stiff and his mouth dry. He can smell coffee, so he ambles into the kitchen where he finds Harrington sitting on a stool at the island. He gives Billy a sleepy smile.

“Morning.”

Steve sips from his mug, and Billy watches his Adam’s apple bob. In the light of day, in his worn-thin t-shirt, with his five o’clock shadow shading his jaw and his curls of disheveled hair hanging over his heavy eyes, Steve seems so soft. It’s such an intimate thing, to see him like this in the morning, vulnerable and smiling easily. Billy wants to reach out and touch him. Instead, he pours himself a cup of coffee and scalds his tongue on it.

Billy can’t stay. Neil will be expecting him. After he finishes his coffee, he changes back into his clothes from last night, and leaves Steve’s sullied clothes in the middle of his bedroom floor. His jacket is still damp and uncomfortable when he slips it on.

“You want a coat?”

Billy eyes him sharply, finds Steve expectant like he knows Billy will be pissed. But he holds Billy’s gaze tenaciously, and Billy has to admire it a little bit even if it makes him want to punch Steve.

“I thought we already went over this.”

“Billy, my mom buys me shit to make up for the fact that she’s _never here_. It’s fucked up. She’s gotten me like eight winter coats, and I never wear any of them. They’re all just sitting in my closet, completely going to waste. _Someone_ should wear them.”

Billy isn’t sure what to say, because he never thought he would feel _bad_ for someone who’s got too many winter coats. But Steve’s tone is almost pleading, like he needs someone to take all these fucking coats off his hands. Billy just rolls his eyes, hates how much he wants to just take the damn coat. His pride is a mile high, but _fuck_ , it gets cold in Indiana. He examines Steve, the stubborn, open expression on his face as he waits for Billy’s answer.

“ _Alright_ , Jesus, I’ll take a damn coat.”

Steve reaches over to open the hall closet before Billy’s done speaking, and pulls out a charcoal wool coat. It’s long, almost like a trench, with lapels and buttons and deep pockets. It’s nice, probably more expensive than Billy could ever hope to afford and Billy grits his teeth and feels his throat constrict. Without meaning to, he shakes his head.

"I can't take that."

Steve pulls it off the hanger and shoves it at Billy. “I’ve never worn it and I never will. Just take it. It’s not a big deal.”

It is a big deal. Billy doesn’t take handouts. He makes do with what he has, works every summer, scrounges every penny he can get, and hell, sometimes he’ll slip a twenty out of the cash register at work or he’ll charm his way into free food or beer, but he doesn’t just let people give him things like this.

But it’s cold out there, and Billy hates the cold. He could say no, could walk out of Harrington’s house in his damp coat and freeze for the next few months. He would do it. But something about Harrington makes Billy not give a fuck anymore. Something about his open expression, something about him living alone in this giant empty house full of _things_ , makes Billy feel like it’s okay to need something just this once.

He grabs the coat from Harrington and throws it on. It’s heavy and oversized, fits comfortably even over his denim jacket.

“Happy?” He snaps, just to be spiteful, just to maintain some kind of dignity. “I hope you know you’re never getting this back.” He heads out the door, unable to look at Harrington.

They drive in amicable silence. The roads are slushy with the snow from the previous night, but it’s not so bad. Steve drops him off down the street from his house, like last time.

“Well, It’s been real, Harrington,” he says.

“Yeah. Later, Hargrove.”

He gets out of the car without delay. He hears the roar of the Beemer retreating behind him as he makes his way up the street.

The coat feels heavy and expensive. He runs his hand over the wool, soft and thick and clearly well-made. He opens it to look at the inside of the lapels, finds a small patch of information sewn into the material. _Made in Sweden. Exterior: 70% Wool, 30% Cashmere. Lining: 100% Silk. Dry Clean Only._

He’s going to have to lie about the coat to Neil—maybe he can say he got a good deal on it or found it at the second hand store, something believable. He’ll probably believe Billy stole it, and Billy doesn’t blame him.

The wind still cuts his face, and the slush still seeps into the cracks of his boots, but Harrington’s coat traps the heat around his body like an embrace, and Billy thinks maybe the rest of the winter won’t be so cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, 'Putt' was apparently a common term in the 80's which meant extremely lame or no fun.


	4. Living in the Space Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what? MORE SLOW BURN.
> 
> But you won't have to wait too much longer, I swear. Smut is just around the corner, folks.
> 
> This chapter was initially long AF and I decided to just split it in half, because it felt like just too much was going on. So, the second half will be comin out soon! Stay tuned!
> 
> Warning - this chapter mentions domestic violence.

Winter stretches on, and even though it’s already March it still feels like January. They’ve been scraping frost from their windshields for too long now, and Steve likes to think he’s got thick skin from living in Hawkins his whole life, but he’s tired of the cracked skin on his hands, tired of waiting ten minutes every morning for his car to warm up. It feels like spring will never come.

His mother calls twice a week. His parents are due back in June, in time for Steve’s graduation and summer in Hawkins. She tells him all about the cruise, how nice the weather is and how many exotic cities they’ve seen, many of which she doesn’t remember the name of. She tells him they miss him so much, and Steve says he misses them too but assures them he’s not too lonely. He can’t tell them the emptiness is like a presence of its own, that sometimes the walls speak to him in a language he doesn’t know.

Steve studies, because for the first time in his high school career, he’s got nothing else to do. His grades improve, especially in Math and Chemistry, and even English rises to a C+, but he knows it’s a little too late, that it doesn’t matter now.

He drives the kids around a lot, and babysits sporadically. Some of the parents offer him money, but he rarely takes it. Sometimes Mrs. Henderson leaves him no choice, and he lets her push the crumpled twenty into his palm.

He goes to Dustin’s for dinner about once a week, because Mrs. Henderson insists and it’s hard to say no to a woman like her. She cooks things like Sloppy Joe’s and Rice-A-Roni, but it’s nice to have a home-cooked meal that he didn’t make himself. He helps her with around the house, things Dustin is still too small to help with, like setting up the new Television and bringing the box of Christmas decorations that’s been sitting by the stairwell back down to the basement. Joyce, at least, has got Jonathon and sometimes Hopper. Mrs. Henderson has only got Dustin, and well—he thinks maybe she knows Steve sort of needs it, too.

Billy wears Steve’s coat every day now, and the sight inexplicably warms Steve like spring did come after all.

They still don’t really talk during school. Billy catches his eye in the halls, and winks or grins or playfully flips him off like they’re in on some joke together, and Steve is amazed how even the smallest things can be tinted with Billy’s own brand of charm.

They see each other when they’re picking up the kids, and Billy will share his cigarettes with Steve while they wait. Billy is mean and crass, like always, but his shoulder brushes Steve’s while they stand close (and maybe it’s because of the cold, but neither of them says anything), and Steve finds he’s come to like Billy’s way of things. Kind of likes the vulgarity, the mischief, the bite.

Being in Billy’s good graces must encourage Tommy, because suddenly Tommy is a lot nicer, even talks to him like nothing happened between. Steve is half tempted to just fall back into the easy existence of King Steve or something close, but he know he’s outgrown it like an old pair of jeans. He could put them on, but they’ll never fit the same.

It would be a familiar life— but then, Billy’s not familiar. He’s a reminder that things have changed, and Steve wouldn’t even know how to be King Steve with Billy around. He doesn’t know _who_ he is with Billy around.

Basketball is more fun than it has been all year, and he actually looks forward to it now that Billy doesn’t want to kill him. They play like a team, they play like they’re having fun, with the same vigor and intensity as before only now Billy actually helps him up when he knocks him down, and high-fives Steve when he scores.

Billy approaches him one evening after a good game, patting him on the back with a peculiar smile like he’s mocking Steve. “Nice work, King Steve. Still got some work to do, but you’re doin’ good,”

“Gee, thanks, asshole.” Steve begins towards the locker room.

“You wanna get better?” Billy’s voice echoes through the gym. They’re the only ones left.

Steve turns back to Billy. “You know, I did just fine until you got here.”

“Yeah, back when no one else at this school could throw a ball for shit. Now, someone can. Gotta adapt, Harrington.” Billy tosses Steve the ball. “You n’ me, Pretty Boy. C’mon.”

They build up a second sweat, and the rest of the team has long showered and gone. They’ve never played one on one before, and Billy’s complete focus on him makes it hard to concentrate on his technique Billy is quick and relentless, his movements precise and practiced. He tells Steve to keep his elbows closer to his side, to use them more on the defense, tells him to relax his wrist when he throws. He comes close and Steve can smell the sweat that glistens on his bare chest.

They lose track of time, and when he checks the clock it’s almost six, and Billy has rush home before his dad gets there.

As Steve slowly showers and dresses, it finally occurs to him that Billy is trying to _repay_ him. Billy doesn’t have a lot to give, not like Steve does. He’s reminded of all the times recently Billy’s shared his cigarettes with him, even though he usually refuses to share with anyone. He thinks of Billy offering rides home once the parties are over. He thinks of Tommy, finally off his back. They’re small favors, and likely done out of some internal sense of obligation, not because he _likes_ Steve.

Steve is still touched by the small acts of kindness, but he has to remind himself that Billy is just trying to repay his debt. They run into each other, they play nice, and Billy repays him in the only currency he has. They don’t _hang_ out. They don’t make plans. They don’t like each other.

This is especially clear to him in moments like this, a few days later, when Billy approaches him after school, cigarette loose at his lips while he lays a friendly hand on Steve’s shoulder.

“Mind takin’ Max with you?”

There’s a girl by the Camaro Steve doesn’t recognize. She must be a junior.

“Are you seriously ditching your little sister to get laid?”

“Not all of us have sworn to celibacy, Harrington. I’ll come pick her up before five. Thanks, buddy.” He pats Steve’s shoulder once and turns before Steve can reply, and Steve grits his teeth as he watches Billy retreat.

Other times, it’s less clear, like when they find each other in the arcade parking lot dropping off their designated children, and Billy looks bored and Steve is lonely. He invites Billy back to his house to smoke weed while they wait for the kids. Steve expects Billy to already have other plans, but he grins and beckons Steve over to get in his car.

Billy drives them to Steve’s. It’s always strange to be in Billy’s Camaro, like Steve is in his intimate, private space. Like being in his bedroom. It feels almost like an honor that Billy lets him in. Billy plays KISS, and Steve complains the whole way.

They smoke in Steve’s bedroom, where Billy watches him roll a joint like he’s trying to memorize it. But Billy knows how to roll a joint, Steve’s almost certain. But Billy watches his fingers work like he’s transfixed. He must be tired.

Steve likes smoking with Billy. When Billy is high, he’s uncharacteristically docile. He becomes almost sincere, calm in a way that doesn’t seem like Billy at all, like the wall finally comes down. He looks at Steve differently. He looks at Steve with that same calculation, that same sparkle of something like amusement, only when he’s high there’s nothing mean about him. Steve’s gotten used to Billy’s bite, but he likes Billy best like this.

Steve revels in the warmth of Billy’s shoulder against his, the taste of Billy’s spit on the joint, and it occurs not for the first time that what he’s feeling isn’t just deference. When he thinks about that, he finds it hard to look at Billy.

They listen to music, and Billy laughs at his taste, too, and the only cassettes he actually likes are the one’s Jonathon lent him, but Steve doesn’t say. Billy plays The Ramones. They sit on Steve’s bed together, and it feels too close to something, but Steve doesn’t move away.

They pick up the kids after two hours, and all Billy says is, “Later, Harrington,” before returning to their usual way.

The kids give him a weird looks whenever they see the two of them waiting together, and today is no different.

“We weren’t hanging out, we were just waiting for you guys,” Steve says defensively when Dustin pries.

“You were in his _car_ , Steve. That sounds a lot like hanging out to me. Did you forget that he’s a complete psycho?”

“He’s not that bad. He’s Max’s brother after all, shouldn’t we--”

“Not that bad?” He doesn’t look at Dustin but he can see the outrage in his periphery. “Did that time he try to kill you give you _brain damage_?”

“Max hates him! Don’t you remember what he was like with Lucas?” Mike says.

“He’s not like that anymore,” Steve defends. “He’s driving Lucas home as we speak!”

“ _So?_ As if that makes up for anything! _”_ Dustin says.

Steve doesn’t push, partly because he understands how they feel, and partly because he doesn’t want to talk about Billy at all. It feels wrong to talk about him with other people, somehow, like it’s breaking some unspoken rules.

Mike and Dustin blabber on about Billy, how they heard he ate a live duck once, and speculating that he had to leave California because he murdered one of his classmates. Will and El stay quiet.

“You two are good friends,” El says finally. It’s a statement, not a question, and it takes Steve off guard.

“ _What_?” Dustin cries.

“We’re not really friends.”

He catches El’s eye in the rearview mirror, and her smile is something sweet and knowing. He doesn’t like it, and so he doesn’t say anything else. He keeps his eyes on the road and listens to the boys babble.

April comes, and spring with it. The temperatures steadily rise to the 40’s and 50’s, and along with the warmth come the rain. It’s always wet in Indiana, but spring is always the wettest. It’s been an unusual year, and the oncoming season is no exception. It pours down nearly every day and night; the gutters turn to rivers and the news broadcasts flood warnings.

Steve’s birthday is the 4th of April, a Thursday, and he wakes to a grey sky and rain thrumming against his bedroom window.

In the past, he would throw a big birthday bash with the entire school invited. This year, he makes no plans and mentions it to nobody, even though the idea of staying home makes him want to climb out of his skin. His parents call to wish him happy birthday and to tell him his parcel should arrive any day now (He gets it the following Monday, and it’s a Walkman with a couple of new CDs. There’s also fifty dollars, with a little note telling him to do whatever he likes with it but to _behave_ —as if they think he’ll throw a party, as if they don’t even know how much Steve’s life has changed over the last year. Steve sets it aside and forgets about it).

Steve doesn’t mind the rain, except for what it does to his hair. He runs from his car to the school entrance, the splash from the puddles spilling into his rain boots. He passes by Billy, smoking under the shelter of the dripping eaves. Steve usually stops to smoke with him, but this morning he doesn’t. The ends of his jeans are dark, and he’s got on Steve’s wool coat even though wool is no good in the rain. They share a look, but they don’t bother to shout over the sound of the weather.

Nancy stops by his locker before first period and wishes him Happy Birthday, told him she was going to bake him some cookies yesterday but she ran out of time, which really means, _I wasn’t sure if I should since we’re not together anymore._ So he tells her not to worry about it, he doesn’t want any cookies. She asks if he has any plans, and he tells her he’s just going to take it easy. He doesn’t want her to feel bad for him, so he smiles like that’s exactly how he wants to spend his birthday.

He wishes he’d made some kind of plan. The kids promised to take him to a movie, whatever one he likes, and they’ll all pitch in to get him a ticket. He’s touched, and he debates taking up their offer tonight, despite how pathetic he feels about spending is eighteenth birthday with a bunch of twelve year-olds.

He stays home and watches TV, eats the junk food he bought with the money his parents left for groceries. Thoughts about college and his future, about his parents and his loneliness, dance along the periphery of his mind. He can feel their weight in his guts, but he doesn’t think about them. Instead, he focuses on the television program, and lets his mind wander to Billy, like it always seems to do.

He becomes restless, and he needs to do something, needs to get out of that house before he tears it down with his bare hands. He considers calling Nancy, or calling Beth, and he considers calling Billy. He’s never called Billy before.

He looks up the only Hargrove’s in the phonebook and calls Billy for the first time. His stomach is tight as he listens to the line go through, and when a man with voice like acid answers, Steve knows he’s made a mistake. He wants to hang up and pretend he never called, but it’s too late now. He gives his name, makes up a lie and says he and Billy have a school project together. Billy sounds stiff and cautious and unlike himself when he picks up. He plays along with the school project, and to Steve’s surprise, agrees to come meet up.

He barges in fifteen minutes later, without knocking or ringing the doorbell, catching Steve just rising from the couch. He looks ready to fight, and he’s flushed and shaky in a way Steve’s never seen.

“Why the fuck did you call me? My dad’s a fucking psycho, Harrington, I thought you knew that already. You’re fucking lucky you’re some shining star in this fucking town, or he’d be on my back for weeks and I’d have to kick your ass.”

Steve feels terrible and stupid, but Billy deflates once he’s done yelling, and he seems smaller than ever before. Steve asks if he wants to go for a drive.

He watches the raindrops convene into a wall of rivulets against the windshield. Steve melts into the passenger side of the Camaro, listening to the thrash of Judas Priest and the hollow drum of rain. Steve complains about the music, like he always does, because it’s what he’s supposed to do.

They park at the Quarry. Billy leaves the car idling so they can listen to music. Steve brought weed, even though he doesn’t feel much like getting high, but there’s not much else to do, sitting in a car at night in the rain. The ritual of smoking with Billy becomes more of a high than the effects of the drug, and Steve finds solace in the warm touch of Billy’s calloused fingers and the spit they share at the tip of the joint.

“Does it rain in San Diego?” He asks, because Billy won’t stop complaining about the weather. Steve thinks whenever Billy complains about Hawkins, he’s thinking of home.

No, Billy says, not much. “One time when I was a kid we had a hurricane. We lost power for a week, and the house flooded. Neil was so mad he beat the shit out of my mom. She was lying in the water and he didn’t help her up. I was afraid she was going to drown, in the living room in four inches of fuckin’ water.”

He says it like it’s a fond memory, and Steve is disturbed to think that maybe it is. Billy watches the glimmering windshield, and Steve resists the desire to touch him.

“She left that summer.”

“Did you see her again?”

Billy looks at him suddenly, and his eyes have a light sheen and Steve feels bad for seeing it. But the spell of the rain is broken, and he can see Billy’s wall going back up. Steve wants to hold onto the moment, but it’s already gone.

“No,” He says, with finality.

He feels there’s no more room for anything else, so they return to the safety of bickering about music, of making fun of Tommy, of bragging about girls; normalcy, even though it doesn’t feel normal to Steve. It’s a different kind of game they play, but he doesn’t like it as much as the other one.

They sit for another while, and then Billy starts the engine and drives Steve home. Steve stares up at the dark windows of the house, and doesn’t want to get out of the car.

“It’s my birthday,” he blurts. He doesn’t mean to.

Billy seems surprised. There’s a pause, during which Steve feels stupid for even saying it, but then, Billy says, “I got something for ya.”

“What?”

Billy reaches into the armrest console, digs around, and produces a timeworn cassette. The case is blank—a mix. He tosses it to Steve.

“Happy birthday, Harrington. It’ll do you some good,” he says, nodding at the cassette.

Steve squeezes until the hard edges of the plastic dig into his palm. He knows it’s nothing spectacular—some mix Billy probably made for himself forever ago that’s been jostling around in his car for months, expendable enough that he’s willing to give it away just like that. But it’s Billy’s, a little trinket taken from Billy’s life like a berry from a tree.

“Thanks,” he says. He doesn’t waste any more time, because he doesn’t want to get Billy into any more trouble. The Camaro is gone before Steve is in the front door.

Once inside, he examines the cassette. It’s cracked in places, white against clear plastic, and he wants it to smell like Billy but it doesn’t. He runs his fingers along the edges, over the ridge of the cracks. He plays it, and it begins at the place where must have Billy last stopped it. Steve doesn’t recognize the song, all electric guitar and roaring vocals. The entire tape will be just that—a selection of rock and heavy metal, maybe even Billy’s favorites, all of which Steve will probably hate.

Somehow, it fits into a tiny place in Steve’s heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live for your comments
> 
> Also, the "ate a live duck once" is shamelessly taken from the film '10 Things I Hate About You' 'cause Billy kind of has a Patrick Verona thing goin' on, don't you think?


	5. Dancing in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, folks! 
> 
> Life's been a little hectic, as I'm sure it has been for everyone else, too! In lieu of everything that's been going on, I hope everyone out there is staying safe and healthy! It's a stressful time. But, in the meantime, maybe the best thing to do is stay inside and... read fanfiction?
> 
> Anyway, I wrote most of this a while ago and then kinda rushed to finish it, so I didn't edit this one with the same attention as usual. I don't feel as good about it, but I just really wanted to get this one out!
> 
> I hope you angels enjoy this chapter!!

Steve listens to the cassette from start to finish. Slowly, melodies appear amongst the indistinguishable noise. He still doesn’t really like it, but he wonders if he’s a step closer to Billy’s strange and inaccessible universe. He doesn’t tell Billy how much he’s listened to it. He doesn’t mention it at all. They don’t discuss these things, like the diner or the coat or the tape. Steve struggles to remember if they’re just dreams he’s had.

His dreams are often infested with Demodogs and trees and particles like floating dust, children screaming and walls like worms closing in around him.

But lately, when he wakes in a film of cold sweat, shuddering and gasping, it’s from dreams of Billy instead. He dreams of different things, most of them he can’t remember a few minutes after waking up. He often dreams that he’s chasing Billy in a maze of hallways and doors, always catching sight just as he disappears into another doorway. Whenever he speaks to Billy in his dreams, Billy speaks strangely as if in another language. In his dreams, he and Billy are still the enemies they once were.

When he wakes, his heart is hammering and he gulps the air like he’s drowning, and this time it’s accompanied with a stiffness so urgent he has to touch himself to go back to sleep.

After these episodes, it’s harder to look Billy in the eye, as if Billy will look at him and see everything. Steve knows Billy is just repaying his debt, and it makes Steve feel stupid whenever he reminds himself.

It’s funny, because he’s not entirely sure he even _likes_ Billy. But something about him sets Steve on edge, hums underneath his skin, makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand. He used to think it was fear, but he’s not sure anymore.

They play this game, only Steve doesn’t really know how to play and he feels like he’s way in over his head. Sometimes, if Steve didn’t know any better, he could swear that he and Billy are flirting. He gets the sense Billy does it purposefully, just to fuck with him, just to watch him squirm, and Steve doesn’t know how to take it. He’ll turn to Steve with his eyes blue and ablaze and trained on him with the intensity of a fox watching a rabbit. Steve swallows and his face burns, and he’s never felt like a rabbit before until he met Billy Hargrove. Not even in the face of a Demodog.

It’s always been this way—Billy is vulgar and mean and charming, can somehow demean Steve and still make Steve like him, and make Steve want Billy to like him back.

Steve doesn’t know if Billy even likes him at all. Steve doesn’t know if Billy spares him a single thought. The concept of Steve existing in Billy’s mind at all seems somehow impossible.

It all weighs heavy when Billy’s eyes are on him, crystalline even under the fluorescent lights of the school hallway, lips around a cigarette. He motions his head for Steve to follow.

Billy has been sharing his cigarettes with Steve almost every day for the last month.

“You don’t have to keep doing this, you know,” Steve says.

“Doin’ what?”

“Giving me cigarettes. Repaying me, or whatever,” he mutters, as if he doesn’t want to say it at all.

Billy’s eyes turn to slate, like he knew they would. “Ok. I won’t waste any more smokes on you then.”

He turns and continues down the hall, and Steve follows. He can sense Billy’s surprise when Steve walks with him, but Steve doesn’t look at him.

Outside it’s damp, but it’s almost warm. They go out without their coats, and it’s not quite warm enough for it.

Steve pulls out his own pack of smokes. He has a lighter, too, but he asks if he can use Billy’s. Billy’s expression is guarded in the brief glance, but he hands Steve his Zippo.

“I’m not _repaying_ you, by the way,” he snaps suddenly.

His tone is harsh and he’s scowling as he stares off into the parking lot. Steve inhales to stop from smiling.

“Okay.”

They smoke the rest of their cigarettes in silence. Nancy catches them coming back in together, and she gives Steve a look.

“Are you and Billy Hargrove _friends_ now?” She asks with that distinct medley of judgmental and concern, and Steve is irritated but also inexplicably panicked. A feeling almost like guilt quickens his pulse, and he can’t name why. “You guys smoke together a lot,” she accuses.

Steve shrugs. “Just bumming smokes. No big deal.” His faces burns, and it feels like he’s breaking a rule, betraying a secret.

He doesn’t understand why it has to be like this, this _almost something_ that rocks back and forth between too much and nothing at all. It feels set in stone, as if it’s God’s plan, or maybe Billy’s will is simply rigid like concrete.

Steve goes to parties just to run into him, because Billy is always at the parties. They play beer pong and guzzle stolen liquor and act like friends, as if they need to be under the influence of alcohol or have the excuse of sharing smokes to be around each other. But mostly, when Steve is drunk, Billy is easier to take. When Steve is drunk, Billy’s game is easier to play.

But drunk Billy is a different creature than High Billy. Drunk Billy is boisterous and belligerent, and if Steve stays late enough, he usually finds Billy passed out in an upstairs bedroom or on the floor. Steve is rarely in a much better state, because Billy usually force-feeds him beer and shots all night long.

Tonight, Steve is plastered. Pot usually gives him the spins at this state, but he wouldn’t refuse smoking a joint with Billy.

It’s too cold to go outside, or maybe they’re just lazy, but they lock themselves in Tina’s bathroom with the fan on high, window cracked open without the screen. They take turns smoking out the window. It’s Billy’s weed, and it tastes laced with Tobacco. The cold air is refreshing on his feverish face, and he turns back to hand Billy the joint.

Billy is at the toilet, reaching into his fly. He takes the joint from Steve and smokes while he pisses.

Steve would be more startled if he were sober, but instead he finds himself oddly transfixed by the sight of Billy doing something so normal, so human. He’s amazed that Billy can make something as mundane as _pissing_ look so good.

“Do you have to do that in front of me?” Steve says.

“When you gotta go, you gotta go.”

Steve laughs, and he feels loose and glowing. Billy tucks himself back in and flushes.

“I hope you wash your hands before you touch that joint.”

Billy gives him a look. He goes to the sink and lathers his hands, smoke crawling out from his mouth.

“You richies and your germs,” he mutters.

“It’s not because I’m rich,” he protests, but he’s not sure.

Billy saunters back over. Steve thinks for once, he might be drunker than Billy. Maybe it’s because Billy is high, but he’s unusually quiet, his eyes surprisingly clear. Steve wonders if he’s had a bad night.

Billy hands him the joint. “Whatever you say, Pretty Boy.”

“You know, you call me pretty, but you’re way prettier than me.”

Billy studies him with a peculiar expression; a lopsided smile, but his eyes narrow. It always takes Billy off guard when Steve plays along. But right now, Steve gets the sense that Billy’s not in the mood to play this game. But Steve gets some kind of pleasure at pushing Billy, like playing with fire. He studies Billy right back, taking in the flush high on his cheeks that wasn’t there before, his eyelashes too long for a boy so mean, his lips too pink for a boy at all.

“Think so?”

“Yeah, with your giant eyelashes and your earring.” Steve doesn’t know what possesses him to do so, but he reaches out and tugs lightly on the dangling earring. “You may as well just be a girl.”

He’s almost sure Billy is going to punch him right in the face for such audacity. Instead, Billy smiles, and Steve is too drunk to tell if it’s a dangerous one or not.

“Wish I was a girl, Harrington?”

The implication isn’t lost on Steve, and if he was more sober he might have blubbered and blushed.

It’s the alcohol that says, “You’re my damsel in distress, remember?”

He knows he’s _definitely_ crossing the line now, and he almost regrets it but for the sweet little rush that tingles his core. Billy’s eyes are searching, something in them making Steve’s insides go hollow, but not in an unpleasant way.

He hands the joint to Billy. Billy takes it after a moment, fingers brushing Steve’s. His hands are warm from the water.

“You ought to be careful, Harrington.” The words sound like a threat, a reminder of what happened the last time those words echoed, but Billy’s voice is soft like velvet, pitches slightly.

It’s a lot. He’s not as good at playing as Billy, even this drunk, so he eases tension inside him by laughing. “Why?”

Billy regards him for a long moment. His eyes have become bloodshot from the pot. Billy holds the smoke in his lungs, and then releases it, and the smoke that slithers out of his mouth is close enough that Steve could open his mouth and get high off the same fumes.

If Steve were sober, he’d probably scamper off before this feeling inside him gets so big he explodes. They’re walking the line of something, and Steve can feel them teetering over the edge. He doesn’t know how to stop it.

The window lets in the cold air, and now it’s just about freezing inside the bathroom. But Steve is used to the temperature, and one thing he’s learned is that it’s always worse if he fights it. If he just relaxes and embraces the cold, no matter how unpleasant it may feel at first, it becomes a little easier to take.

He embraces it now, and the feeling of something spinning inside him fades, settles like sediment, pooling warm in his abdomen.

The bathroom is almost freezing, but Billy radiates heat like a furnace, like if Steve were to reach out and touch him he would burn himself. He’s drawn to it like a moth to a flame, and Steve can feel himself reaching towards it, reaching towards the flame, ready to be scorched.

There’s banging at the door. His stomach sinks at the sudden intrusion, destroying the vivid and delicate moment.

“Is someone fucking in there?” Someone shouts.

Billy flicks the stub into the toilet and flushes.

They go their separate ways out of the bathroom—expelled from whatever realm they’d just been in. Like waking up from a dream.

Steve finds Beth, who he’s been stringing along for the better half of two months, drags her to one of the bedrooms and fucks her like it will get this uneasy feeling out of him. He’s too drunk to keep it up, so pulls down her jeans and pushes her knees up by her shoulders, makes her come with just his tongue. She’s delighted, and Steve feels like he’s losing his mind.

That night lingers on Steve’s mind for days. He replays it over and over, the blue of Billy’s eyes like the crackle of lightning, the feeling of something excruciating and lovely rising without relief, the moment passing like cold honey.

They were on the brink of something, and Billy seems to know it, too, because he won’t catch Steve’s eye the following days at school. He doesn’t wait up at lunchtime so they can have a smoke together. He doesn’t play against Steve during basketball like he usually does. Just like that, like a flipped switch.

But Steve isn’t annoyed this time. He’s not hurt. He’s honestly, truly, a little relieved, because he doesn’t know how he would face Billy again after their moment in the bathroom. He doesn’t know if he could look Billy in the face, if he could form words and speak casually as if everything is normal. Perhaps Billy feels the same. The thought brings him both anxiety and relief.

He’s glad for the distance.

He’s glad, but he fidgets in his desk and can’t stop himself from stealing glances at Billy whenever he’s in the room. He can’t stop himself from reliving the moment at Tina’s, turning it over in his mind like a coin between his fingers. He envisions himself approaching Billy and inviting him out for a smoke, like everything is normal, like nothing strange had happened. Like Steve feels nothing out of the ordinary. He feels the desire to do it in his body, blood pumping with adrenaline, face warm with excitement, muscles igniting as if he _will_ get up and walk over.

But he doesn’t.

He does look for Billy at Patricia Lamkin’s party the following weekend. Without a word spoken all week, Steve looks forward to getting drunk and finally being able to talk to Billy again. Looks forward to getting over this _thing_ and move forward—wherever forward goes.

But Billy is nowhere to be found. Steve floats around the entire house, searching as casually as he can manage. He waits, drinking beer and loosening up the anticipation that rings his guts so tight. Hours pass, and there’s no sign of Billy. The disappointment is heavy and almost a relief, but he tries not to imagine where else Billy could be or who else he could be with. Instead, he tries to focus on the people around him, even though he doesn’t really care about any of them and the only reason parties are fun these days is because of Billy. But Steve drinks until he’s dizzy, and dances with Beth until he sweats, and smokes some weed with the guys and asks if they’ve seen Billy. None of them have.

It must be almost four in the morning when Steve runs upstairs to find the bathroom, because the downstairs one is taken. It’s the seventh time tonight, and he knows he’s drank too much.

The hallway is dark but for the sliver of light outlining the bathroom door. It seems empty, and Steve’s bladder jumps.

But some movement catches his attention. Someone down the hall is emerging from one of the bedrooms, and somehow, even in the darkness, Steve knows it’s Billy.

“Billy? That you?”

Billy doesn’t speak, but he moves closer to Steve, stepping into the light from the bathroom door. Even in the sparse light, Steve can tell Billy is fucked up. His eyes glazed over, mouth lax, expression mean.

“I’ve been looking for you, man.” Steve lays a hand on Billy’s stiff shoulder, but Billy knocks his hand away.

“The fuck you want, Harrington?”

“When did you get here?”

“Been here all night,” Billy slurs. He wobbles unsteadily on his feet. Steve is in no better condition, but he reaches out to touch his shoulder.

Billy knocks his hand away again, and this time shoves Steve away, his face tightening into a scowl. Steve, unsteady, fumbles back until his back finds the wall. There’s something volatile about Billy, more than usual. His shoulders are squared like he’s on the defense, his fists clenched, his expression cold. The hostility radiates from him like his scent, like his heat.

“What the fuck do you want, Harrington?”

It’s been a long time since Billy’s been violent.

But Steve isn’t afraid of Billy like he used to be.

“Why do you always call me Harrington?”

“It’s your fuckin’ name.”

Steve shakes his head. “No it’s not. Not my real name. Why don’t you just call me by my real name?”

Billy crowds him into the wall, so close Steve can smell the liquor on his breath. Up close he looks even more fucked, glazed and far away. There’s always something a little manic about Billy when he’s drunk, a little unpredictable, and Steve feels something cold run down his spine.

Billy slams his hand on the wall by Steve’s head, leans into Steve’s space even more. His eyes flick over Steve’s face, and Steve can’t tell what he’s thinking. He doesn’t really care. Steve can feel the drum of his heartbeat, can almost taste Billy’s breath, he’s so close.

“I like it when you call me Steve.” He whispers, barely aware he even said it.

Billy cranes his head, and in the darkness Steve can’t really read his expression but the smile he gives Steve looks a little crooked, a little sinister.

Steve wonders if Billy will punch him after all.

“Steve.” His breath dances over Steve’s cheek. The hairs on the back of Steve’s neck stand. He’s sure Billy can feel him shiver.

Steve doesn’t say anything, so lost in the sensation and the sound of his name in Billy’s mouth. It doesn’t even occur to him to speak.

“What about _my name_?” Billy’s voice is like gravel under a tire. Steve’s throat is suddenly dry.

He swallows, licks his lips. Billy’s eyes follow the movement.

“Billy.”

It’s barely a whisper, lost in the space between them.

It feels like a submission, a confession, a release. It feels like finally toppling over that edge.

Somehow, Billy’s mouth still comes as a shock.

It’s warm and wet and sharp, a sloppy collide of lips and teeth. One of their teeth digs into Steve’s lip, he’s not sure whose, and he doesn’t care. He cares about the shocking softness of Billy’s mouth, the taste like smoke and liquor, and the unexpected scrape like sandpaper from his four o’clock shadow. Steve tries to breath, suffocates on Billy’s scent of cologne and leather and stale smoke. Billy presses against Steve, presses his chest into Steve’s, the front of his jeans.

Steve takes a moment to process what’s happening, and before he can react properly, Billy rips away.

Steve feels startled. But Billy looks panicked, horrified, as if he can’t believe what he’s just done. His widened eyes narrow, and his hands are suddenly bunched in Steve’s shirt, pulling Steve away from the wall just to slam him back into it.

“If you tell _anyone_ , I’ll _fucking kill_ _you_ Harrington.” He seethes through barred teeth and wild eyes, and Steve believes him.

Then, just as quickly as he appeared, he vanishes into the darkness of the stairwell.

Steve stays slumped against the wall for a long minute, staring into the darkness where Billy disappeared. He waits for his heart race to settle, for his lips to stop tingling.

He then remembers he came up here to pee, so he blindly stumbles into the bathroom.

The bright light makes him feel surreal. His lips are swollen when he looks into the mirror. He runs his hand over his face, as if that will bring him down to earth. He doesn’t feel equipped to deal with this. Especially when he unzips his pants to piss, and he’s half hard.

He returns downstairs after a while, dazed and confused, brimming with unidentified emotions yet strangely hollow. Billy is nowhere to be found, and Steve doesn’t feel like running into him again, so gets a ride home with Beth.

She kisses him before he gets out of the car, and Steve wonders if she can taste Billy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, our boys finally kissed!!! Of course Billy is gonna be an asshole about it. You ought to know by now that I live and die for asshole!Billy.
> 
> Also, I think I put a lot of pressure on myself to make their 'first kiss' really good, but I'm not really sure how I feel about what I wrote. If this is actually completely trash, please let me know lol.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos and comments :) I love love love reading your feedback and your support means so much to me!!


	6. Nights Mainly Made For Things You Can't Say Tomorrow Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Homophobic Language ahead.

He wakes to a pounding headache and a hollow pit in his gut so big it threatens to swallow whole. He gets himself a glass of water and aspirin and goes back to bed. He wishes for sleep but he just lies there, lets himself sink down into that hollow pit inside him, and under the exposure from the mid-morning light, he cries.

He stays in bed until mid-afternoon when the urge to puke finally passes and he gathers enough energy to go downstairs. He makes himself canned chicken soup and watches reruns of sitcoms in the living room, longing for some company whilst dreading having to talk to anyone. He tidies up the house, he takes a scalding bath with his mom’s expensive bubble bath. He thinks about listening to loud music in his bedroom, but he doesn’t want to touch the tape he left in there.

Sunday, he has more energy and little patience. He feels antsy and restless, needs to do something before he crawls out of his skin or worse, needs to keep out of the labyrinth of his thoughts. He goes for a long run, the first one since last fall. He tries to cook something from one of his mother’s fancy cookbooks, which he sometimes likes to do, but he can’t concentrate on following the recipe. He doesn’t feel like socializing, but he doesn’t know what else to do, so he calls Beth, his safest bet.

He takes her up into his room and tries to become consumed by the sensations of her. It feels good and it works for a while, but when it’s over the feeling is still there, hiding under the covers of pleasure.

He must be easy to read because even she can tell that something is bothering him. He makes up an excuse about school when she pries. He doesn’t want to be rude, so even though he wants to be alone again he asks her if she wants to watch a movie.

But then it’s Sunday night, and she's gone home, and Monday is only a few hours away.

He doesn’t know what tomorrow will bring, if Billy will avoid him at all costs or pretend nothing happened at all. Steve has a feeling it will be the former, and this time he hopes it’s true, because he doesn’t think he can look Billy in the eye and pretend like everything is fine—doesn’t think he can even look at Billy at all.

For a few days, Steve is convinced that they can actually ignore each other until the year is over. It’s only a month till graduation, and then they’ll never have to see each other again. Steve could pretend none it ever happened, that he had never known a boy named Billy Hargrove. Billy will disappear back to California and never look back, and Steve will stay right here in Hawkins and date girls like he always has, and never be reminded again of this strange time in his life.

But as the days trudge on, it becomes glaringly obvious to Steve that he can’t do that.

Steve knows himself by now, and he’s never been good at bottling things up. He doesn’t _want_ to. Silences full of thoughts unsaid, empty spaces with no room for brimming emotion—Steve is so tired of carrying it all inside.

He may not be good at articulating what he feels, but some say actions speak louder than words. His body springs into action even when the words don’t come, eager to shed the weight of feeling. Especially _this feeling_ —wriggling like a worm inside him, gnawing away his wellness like some parasite Steve longs to rip free— _this feeling_ , he won’t be able to ignore for much longer.

The decision to confront Billy gradually solidifies in his mind over the course of a few days. Steve is certain that Billy’s resolve of steel will be hell to break through, and beneath it, he’ll probably find the boundless fury he’s met before or maybe even worse. It’s terrifying, but Steve is sure the alternative is ultimately worse.

Steve tries to catch Billy’s eye, but Billy won’t even glance in his general direction. He expected as much, so he tries a different approach.

After basketball practice, during which Billy still somehow managed to pretend Steve wasn’t there at all, he shouts Billy’s name. Billy turns only slightly, as if the movement physically pains him. He glances at Steve for a millisecond before casting his gaze away. His expression is blank.

“Wanna play?”

Billy keeps walking. “Don’t have time.”

Steve hurries into the locker room after Billy, hoping to catch him alone. But Billy has caught on, because he hurries to dress and leaves within the shroud of others.

Steve slams his locker shut.

He tries again the next day, as he spots Billy heading outside one of the side exits for a smoke. As casually as he can manage, Steve follows him into the damp air, still a touch too cold for May. It leads into an alley between the school and the gym, a semi-private place where Steve sometimes used to bring girls to make out with between classes.

Billy doesn’t look surprised to see him. But he does look every bit as hostile as Steve expected.

Steve takes out his own cigarette, asks for a light. Billy lights it for him without eye contact. Even though he just started it, Billy drops his cigarette and heads towards the door.

“Billy,” Steve steps in front of him.

Billy looks incredulous and downright homicidal. “Can I fucking help you?”

“Can you just—stay here for a minute?” Steve tries to keep his tone firm but pacific.

“What d’you want?” Billy’s voice is rising, his weight shifting from one foot to the other. His eyes burn with fury, but Steve thinks he seems something else, too, something akin to panic. Billy is afraid.

“I just wanna talk,” he says, even though he realizes he has no idea what he wants to say. He doesn’t even know how he feels or what he wants from his confrontation. He doesn’t think too much about it.

“I have nothing to say to you.” Billy may have fear in his eyes but his voice is dangerous, the snarl of a wild animal backed into a corner.

Steve feels like he’s burning all over, like he’ll dwindle into ash.

Maybe he can’t do this.

“Well, I have something to say to you.”

Billy rolls his eyes, and Steve can almost see the panic rising in him. “Fuck off, Harrington. I don’t have time for this.”

Steve opens his mouth without knowing what he’s going to say. He hears the words that have echoed over and over in his mind, but as they fall out of his mouth, he knows they’re irreversible.

“You kissed me.”

Billy looks stunned. At first, he doesn’t respond, and the words ring in the silence between them.

“ _What did you say_?” Billy’s narrowed eyes are like the glint of a knife. A warning.

He sucks in a breath as if it’ll give him courage. “You kissed me, Billy.”

Billy huffs out an outraged laugh. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Steve searches Billy’s face for something, he’s not sure what--something to hold onto, perhaps, to give him the courage he lost somewhere between stepping and _you kissed me_. He had prepared for this to be hard, but now in the face of it, Steve realizes there is no preparation for something like this.

“C’mon, man,” is all Steve says, almost pleads, because he can’t find words to end this game.

“Sorry to break your heart, Harrington, but I probably thought you were a chick. I was so wasted last weekend I barely even remember.”

Steve nods. “Oh, really?”

Billy shrugs, lights up another cigarette. He watches Steve over the flame, eyes dancing dangerously in the fire. “What did you think, Princess? D’you think I had a hard-on you for you or something?”

Steve swallows thickly. Billy’s velvety laugh feels like an incision. The panic has fled, and in its place is Billy’s usual smooth, cold demeanor. Billy thinks he’s won.

Steve almost accepts it, almost grits out _my mistake_ , prepared to turn and walk away and forget this entire thing ever happened, forget Billy Hargrove entirely and all the moments they’ve shared over the past year, all the things he’s felt.

“That’s bullshit.”

Shock registers on Billy’s face, as if in disbelief that Steve dared defy him, before it curls into something ugly. Steve’s heart races in his ears, but he stands with determination against his old enemy.

Steve’s back crashes against the brick wall behind him, Billy’s forearm suddenly crushing his collarbone, and Billy’s enraged face is _right there_. “You calling me a faggot, Harrington?”

Steve says nothing. Billy bars his teeth in what could only be triumph.

“’Cause it sounds to me like _you_ ’re the faggot.”

Steve stays quiet. He’s never thought of that word in association with himself until this moment. He never would have thought that _he_ would be a _faggot_. People could call him that as an insult, but it wouldn’t be true. But he realizes then, with sickening surprise, that it is. He’s reminded of the old Steve, the one who’d hurl the word at misfit kids uncaringly, without an inkling of the impact. The Steve who wouldn’t have believed he would end up here, pressed up against another boy and wanting more.

“Maybe I am,” Steve says.

Billy doesn’t move. His expression goes lax with something unreadable, and his mouth works as if he wants to speak but he says nothing. Perhaps for the first time, Billy is at a loss for words. He narrows his eyes, studying Steve carefully as if trying to catch him in something. Steve stares back openly, defiantly. Billy’s arm still pins him to the wall, his elbow digging painfully into Steve’s shoulder.

“So what?” Billy says finally. His voice has gone quiet.

Steve’s breath hitches. “So…?”

“What do you want from me, Harrington? Why’d you follow me out here?” Billy leans his weight into his arm, crushing Steve’s chest. He tries to push back a little to get some relief, some space, but Billy is like a wall.

Steve chooses his words carefully. All of the things he thought he might say, now strike him as incredibly cheesy, and he doesn’t think he can say them to Billy’s face, not with Billy aggressive and defensive like this. Billy would probably laugh in his face, punch him for being so pathetic. But Billy licks his lips then, and Steve remembers what it’s like to kiss them, how soft they were, how Billy tasted like nicotine and liquor.

Steve’s never been great with words—he’s a man of action. At least that’s what he tells himself in the moment when he leans in and kisses Billy right on the mouth outside of school in broad daylight.

The kiss lasts for a mere few seconds, before Billy springs away from him.

“Get the fuck off me, Harrington, Jesus. There are people around,” he looks down either end of the alley. No one is around.

The bell rings, signifying the end of lunch.

Billy watches him at a distance, eying him up and down with such blatant suspicion it’s almost comical. He looks away then, grinding his teeth, as if he doesn’t want Steve to see his face.

“Will you come to my house tonight?”

Billy shows no sign he heard him. He moves towards the door, stops to glare at Steve. “Whatever, just—just don’t fucking talk to me.” With that, he disappears into the door, leaving Steve once again completely baffled and a little hurt, touching his tingling lips against a lonely wall.

Steve contemplates Billy’s last words all afternoon. Was it a rejection? It certainly seemed like it. Steve replayed the encounter over and over in his mind, at a loss for what even occurred between them. Billy had seemed overall agitated, annoyed, and avoidant. He did not _once_ admit to anything. Steve feels a small twinge of fear that maybe he had read it all wrong, that maybe it _was_ simply a drunken mistake after all.

But Billy had seemed so panicked, defensive, unsure. In the moment, Steve had interpreted it as a sign that Billy felt the same as he did. That this whole thing was just as confusing and scary for him as it was for Steve. It's a small beacon of hope in the fresh fear that he had massively fucked everything up.

The feeling rests heavy in his chest all afternoon and into the evening.

After school, Steve showers thoroughly. He fixes his hair with shaky fingers and picks out some casual clothes to wear. He hadn’t told Billy what time to come. It could be any time—if he even _showed at all_.

Steve busies himself, so he doesn’t dwell. He tries to do some homework, which he seriously needs to do, but he can’t concentrate. He spends some time cooking pasta, but can’t stomach it when he tries to eat. He tidies up the kitchen. He does some laundry. Then he doesn’t know what to do. It’s half-past six. He cracks open a beer to calm his nerves.

Around ten, when Steve is about to accept defeat, the doorbell rings.

As Steve makes his way to the front door, he doesn’t think he’s ever been so nervous in his life.

He’s like a sliver of the sun when Steve opens the door, bright and somehow bigger than his size, beautiful and deadly and hard to look at directly. He postures casually, arms crossed like he's pissed to even be here, looking decidedly away from Steve. His shirt is unbuttoned almost all the way. He doesn’t say a word.

Steve waits for Billy to say something. To do something. When he doesn’t, Steve says, “Hi.”

Billy finally looks at him, in such a way that makes Steve feel even more nervous. “Gonna let me in?”

He steps aside, and Billy takes a careful step inside. The porch fills with the scent of him.

“Want a beer?” He asks as he closes the door.

Billy is already wandering towards the kitchen, his steps careful like he knows he doesn’t belong, but confident at the same time like he doesn’t really care.

Steve can feel Billy’s eyes like heat. He isn’t sure what to say, what they could even talk about. Steve isn’t even sure why he asked Billy here, what he wants out of this evening. It seems like Billy isn’t in a talkative mood either, watching Steve with an uncharacteristic solemnity that sets Steve on edge.

They drink their beer in tense, uncomfortable silence. Billy downs it quickly, as if he can’t stand it either, and sets the bottle down with a loud clank.

“So,” Billy says, as he opens the fridge and helps himself to another beer. He moves towards Steve, close, sets his beer on the kitchen counter behind Steve. Billy’s eyes are soft and serious, more so than he’s ever seen them, but there’s still something sharp in them, something unreadable. It makes Steve realize how in over his head he really is.

“Why’d you invite me over here, Harrington?”

All the heat rushes to Steve’s face.

He _knows_ , but doesn’t know how to say it. With girls, it’s easy. It’s _normal_ , it’s _expected_. The rules are already set. Steve talks to her at school, tells her how cute her smile is, asks her out on a date, kisses her at the end of it, and sees how far she’ll go. There’s a formula, a script they both follow.

With Billy, there is no script. It’s just Steve and Billy, and Steve isn’t sure what to do with that. He can’t tell Billy he _likes_ him, can’t tell Billy how _handsome_ he is, can’t even be blunt and tell Billy he wants to fuck him—because Steve doesn’t even know how, if they even can, if that’s a normal thing for guys to do with one another. Maybe there are rules for these kinds of things, but Steve doesn’t know them, doesn’t know how he would begin to know them.

Steve opens his mouth, praying that words will naturally start to form, but nothing comes.

One side of Billy’s lip quirks as he watches Steve. He gets the sense Billy knows what he’s feeling, because his eyes become soft and knowing and a little amused, and he moves a little closer.

Steve watches him wet his lips, watches him crowd Steve into the kitchen counter until they’re kissing.

It takes Steve off guard again, how different it is to kiss a boy. It’s a little bit rough—the scratch of stubble, the sharp spice of cologne, the catch of calloused fingertips, the strength and power of the masculine. His touches are commanding, greedy, confident. Not anything like the girls he’s been with, who are soft and hesitant like a whisper.

Their teeth click together awkwardly, and Billy’s tongue is deep in Steve’s mouth. It’s like junior high all over again, as Steve marvels at the simple act of tasting Billy’s tongue. They try to find a rhythm, a semblance of flow, but the kiss is chaotic and messy. He’s harder than he’s been in a long time, and he realizes he’s pressing himself fully into Billy like they could merge into one, and he’s light-headed with the thrill of it. Billy—untouchable, unreachable, like smoke, is finally here, between Steve’s arms, between his lips, warm and soft and hard and rough and real.

He feels Billy’s hands on his ass, and _that_ is definitely something new. No one has ever touched him like that before. The concept alone makes all the heat rush into his face, tingle down his abdomen and lower—that Billy probably _likes_ his ass.

He finds his own hands trailing down the back of Billy’s belt, and it’s a bit too much so he pulls away.

They’re panting, and Billy’s are eyes so dark they’re unfamiliar. It makes Steve shiver. His expression is soft, almost vulnerable, but with that hardness still there too. Steve can’t tell if it’s desire, predation, or triumph, or something else entirely. He doesn’t dwell on that. He looks down at their matching bulges pressed together, and it takes Steve off guard how hot he finds it.

“I’ve never—I mean, with a—”

“Shut up.” Billy’s voice is so low, and Steve can feel the vibration of it. “I know.”

Steve doesn’t ask if Billy ever has.

Steve is harder than he’s been in months, filled with a desire so strong it’s dizzying, but he feels insecure in a way he hasn’t really before. He doesn’t know what happens next, what he’s supposed to do. Steve has always felt confident in steering his way through hookups, but in this case—he has no idea what the fuck he’s doing.

So he just kisses Billy, tests it. He runs his hands into Billy’s hair, softer than he imagined, and Billy doesn’t seem to mind. He moves an experimental hand down to Billy’s ass. Billy bites his lip and sucks, hips pressing into Steve.

Then, Billy’s hands are undoing Steve’s buckle. He pulls away to look at Steve while he’s doing it. Billy’s full attention is always on the verge of too much to handle, let alone like _this_.

“Y’okay?”

His voice is gruff, but the consideration Steve finds oddly touching.

He’s not sure if he’s okay, because it’s all happening so fast and Steve isn’t sure if he’s ready to cross this line. But he’s throbbing in his pants, and Billy’s face is beautifully flushed and his eyes are black with want, and he’s asking for _permission_.

He barely trusts himself to speak, but he breathes out something like _yeah._

Billy reaches into Steve’s pants. Steve grips the counter behind him, shuts his eyes and tries not to get too excited too quickly. Billy’s hands are big and rough and they work with purpose, and it’s somehow familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

“Jesus, Harrington, they weren’t kidding when they said you were hung.”

Steve laughs a little, but it mostly comes out like a pant. Billy grins like a wolf, his mouth all swollen from kissing, his eyes all dark and full of mischief.

Then, Billy lowers to his knees, and Steve thinks he might come from the sight alone. He yanks down Steve’s jeans for better access and takes Steve into his mouth. Steve stifles a groan. He grips the counter for dear life, trying not to watch because he might finish too quick, but unable to look away from the sight of Billy on his knees, lips stretched around the base of Steve’s cock.

Billy gets right to the point, sucking hard with a practiced tongue and a sure hand. Steve isn’t even sure what Billy’s doing, but it’s the best thing he’s ever fucking felt, and Lori Bauchman gives great head.

Billy gags when he tries to take Steve all the way, eyes watering a little, and Steve doesn’t know why but he’s sure it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

“ _I’m gonna come if you don’t slow down_.”

Billy pulls off, strands of saliva connecting Steve's dick with Billy’s gleaming mouth.

So Billy goes slow, but it’s worse. He sucks at Steve’s balls, watching him from under the fan of his dark lashes, licks a stripe up Steve’s dick, and sucks at the tip like it’s something sweet. Steve swears Billy’s name under his breath, can’t help it, grabs Billy by the hair, and pulls him all the way again. Billy’s fingers dig into his hip painfully, and he sucks so good, Steve warns him that he’s going to come.

He expects Billy to pull away, but Billy takes it all and swallows everything down. Steve sees blinding stars, and if he wasn’t holding on to the counter he would have fallen on his buckling knees.

Billy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and rises. Steve watches with awe.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, trying to catch his breath.

Billy straightens up and reaches for his beer behind Steve. Steve watches Billy swallow the last of it as he does his jeans back up, eyes trailing down to the swelling at the front of Billy’s. Steve feels another twist of nervousness.

Billy is watching him. He sets down his empty bottle. “Was that the best head you ever got, or what?”

Steve laughs nervously, feels inexplicably embarrassed. He has trouble looking into Billy’s eyes. “It was pretty good.”

“You’re cute, Harrington. Thanks for the beer.” Billy slaps his arm in some kind of mock-friendly gesture, and goes to grab his keys.

“Wait,” Steve says, panicked.

“For what?”

“What about—don’t you want—?“

“Don’t you worry about me, Harrington.” Billy says, shoots him that blinding charmer he saves for the girls he tries to get into bed—a blatantly artificial, facetious smile. “Catch you later,” he says, and then he’s gone again.

Steve gapes after him, feels like throwing something after him. He rings his fists, wondering how it's possible to feel this fucking betrayed after getting his dick sucked. How he managed to get Billy to his house, got him on his knees, and Steve somehow still feels like the one who got taken advantage of.

Steve fumes the following days at school. He cannot understand why Billy is still _playing_ this stupid game, when the truth is out of the bag already.

Steve casually follows Billy out into the parking lot two days after their encounter. He knows Billy doesn’t have to pick Max up from school today, because she’s going to the arcade with the others. Sometimes being friends with all the kids has its perks.

Billy is already in the car by the time Steve catches up to him. He doesn’t get out when Steve hovers outside the Camaro, so Steve knocks on the window. Billy cracks it the smallest amount possible.

“ _What_?”

“Why are you ignoring me?”

“I’m not. I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I?”

Steve huffs. “Can you just stop being an asshole for _one second_?”

Billy shoots him a look. His window is still only open by less an inch. “You’re like a housefly I have to keep swatting away. You know that, Harrington?”

“ _I just wanna talk_.”

“’Bout what?”

“What do you _think_?”

Billy sighs dramatically. “Harrington, save your breath, alright? I know what you’re going to say—“

“What am I gonna say, then?”

Billy glances over his shoulder to make sure there’s no one around before he turns to glare at Steve.

“It was just one time and it’s our little secret. I get it. Now scram.”

“That’s not what I wanna say, you asshole. Is that what you think?”

Billy grins up at him, lips pink around white teeth, and Steve remembers how it felt. “I know guys like you, Harrington.”

“Oh, and what guy am I like?”

“Straight guy is what you’re like.”

Again, the word hits Steve as if for the first time. It seems silly, considering what’s happened between them. It dawns on Steve, not for the first time, that he and Billy have lived different lives. The way he talks, like he’s done this before, like this has happened to him before. Like Billy isn’t straight, and has never thought of himself that way. Unlike Steve, who until recently has never given it any thought at all.

“Look,” Steve says. “You either like me, or you don’t. It’s that simple, Billy. So which one is it?”

Billy considers him. He almost looks impressed. He glances around one last time.

“Get in the car.”

Steve walks around to the passenger side.

“First of all,” Billy says, “I don’t _like_ you.”

Steve suppresses his grin, finally feeling the embrace of triumph. “Ok. But you’re into me.”

Billy rolls his eyes again and lights up a cigarette.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” He turns his gaze on to Steve. That same gaze as before, smoldering, too heavy for Steve to hold. Billy’s words echo in his ears as he studies Billy’s expression, skeptical and curious. _Straight guy is what you’re like._

“So, King Steve. Tell me what you wanna do.” Billy holds his gaze, sucks his cigarette. The car fills with smoke, Steve can feel it sting his eyes and fill his throat.

Steve knows exactly what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, sorry for the hiatus. I left this work for what feels like so long, and I've missed it so much. I love these two boys.
> 
> I haven't really had the motivation to write until very recently--as much as I don't mind being confined to my house, I think it has a negative impact on my mental health, you know? 
> 
> I hope you're all doing alright. Right now, everyone is kind of struggling in their own way, no matter what their situation is. If anyone needs a chat, my figurative door is always open. 
> 
> Anyway, hope yall enjoyed this long-awaited smut. There is lots more on the way, so prepare yourselves.
> 
> Also, title is (predictably) taken from Do I Wanna Know by Arctic Monkeys. That album just has strong Harringrove vibes idk.


	7. Baby's Wearing Blue Jeans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has left kudos and comments - you are all awesome and your comments make me so happy :) 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy this next chapter!

They drive to Steve’s house with Billy’s music blaring, and for the first time Steve is grateful for it because it means they don’t have to make conversation. He can feel Billy stealing glances at him while he drives, but Steve doesn’t look at him, afraid he’ll lose his nerve. But it might be too late—he can already feel the slow drain of his determination, lower and lower with each second.

He tries to hold onto it, and tries not to overthink the fact that he has _no plan_ , _no idea_ what he’s doing, and that his only fuel is a reckless desire so new it frightens him.

Walking up the front steps together, Steve unlocks the door with waves crashing in his ears and his skin too tight and too warm, and he knows he _definitely_ lost his nerve somewhere along the ride. He lets them both inside, and leads Billy into the living room, because Steve isn’t sure he can stand up for this.

He sits on the couch. Billy stands at the doorway with a hesitancy that makes Steve wonder if Billy is just as nervous as he is. The thought should be soothing, but it only strengthens his panic.

“Sit,” Steve says.

He looks skeptical, but he makes himself comfortable in the armchair across from Steve.

“Can I get you something to drink, or…?”

“I’m alright.”

“Okay.”

They sit in silence for a long moment, and under the heat of Billy’s expectant gaze, Steve finds himself unable to look directly at him.

He knows what he wants to do—he’s had it in his mind since Billy was last here. If he’s honest with himself, he’s had it in his mind long before that. Now, he feels like he’s got something to prove—whether it’s to himself or Billy, he’s not entirely sure. Billy’s words from earlier echo in his head, and the fleeting image of Billy’s back retreating last time he was here. He had things rehearsed in his mind, confessions like _I can’t stop thinking about you,_ and _I get off to thoughts of you almost every single night_. But none of those confessions even reach his throat, as he finally looks Billy in the face.

Billy sighs, makes a show of idly looking around the room, clearly waiting for whatever it is Steve brought him here to do.

“The suspense is really killing me here.”

Steve opens his mouth, but no words come out.

“You know, if you want a repeat performance, you can just ask.”

“No,” Steve huffs, insulted. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it? You don’t have to like, _repay me_ ,” Billy drawls, echoing Steve’s words from weeks ago. “If that’s what you’re thinking. Consider it _my gift to you_ , Pretty Boy.”

A horrible, horrible thought unfurls in Steve.

It had never occurred to him that what Billy did for him the other day was a _favor_ , some kind of amend to make them even. Steve’s stomach slowly sinks, as he suddenly wonders if he’s misinterpreted this _entire thing_ , if Billy is simply indulging him out of a sense of obligation, if what happened between them was simply _transactional_ , and Steve has been no more than a fool, like he always seems to be.

Steve finds himself on his feet. Billy looks bored—and Steve can’t tell if it’s performative, or if he is genuinely that unimpressed with Steve.

“What happened the other day—did you think—was that your way of like, balancing the score or something?”

Billy shrugs. His knee jitters up and down. “I mean, it does, doesn’t it?”

“You _asshole_ ,” Steve spits.

“What are you getting so worked up about?” Billy says, his boredom now tinged with a touch of incredulity. “You got your dick sucked, Harrington.”

“Yeah, and you only did it because of some twisted sense of _obligation_ or something? That’s fucked up.”

Billy reaches into his denim jacket and pulls out his Malboros, lights one up under an irritated scowl. “Listen, Harrington. I don’t do things I don’t wanna do, alright? So don’t get your panties all in a twist or anything.”

Finally, the knot in Steve’s stomach loosens just slightly. He turns towards Billy to face him full-on. “So you wanted to, then?”

When Billy doesn’t answer, Steve steps a little closer. “Did you?”

Billy gives him a measuring look, mouth open to release a cloud of smoke. “What did I just say?”

Billy wears blue jeans, so tight Steve can make out every line and curve of his muscular legs and what lies between them. Steve’s eyes follow the seams along the inside of his thighs, imagines crawling between them.

“Tell me again,” Steve says.

Billy gives him a look, like _seriously?_ As if Steve is the one being impossible. Steve steps closer, till he’s almost standing directly over Billy, and he doesn’t wait for his confidence to fade this time. He kneels between Billy’s knees.

Steve can tell Billy wasn’t expecting that, and he feels a little thrill at being able to surprise him.

Steve rests his elbows on Billy’s knees, placing his palms carefully on the tops of his thighs, leans in real close. “Can you just say it? I need to know. Please, Billy.”

Billy watches him intently with something like amazement, as if he’s never seen something quite like Steve before, as if he’s too shocked to school his features back into a mask of indifference. He holds the forgotten cigarette between his fingers, smoke billowing across his face as he licks his lips and gains a little bit of composure. Steve wants to taste the tobacco on his tongue.

“I wanted to.” Billy’s voice is quiet, softer than he’s ever heard.

“Wanted to what?”

Billy swallows. His jaw pulses. Steve wonders if he’s pushing it, crossing the line, but by the way his eyes dance over Steve’s face, too intense and a little bit vulnerable behind the insolence, Steve thinks the other side of the line is where he needs to be.

“I wanted to suck your dick.”

From here, in the small space between Billy’s knees, Steve can tell Billy is getting hard. Steve is kneeling at his feet, literally begging, but he’s never felt more powerful in all his life. Steve smiles at Billy’s confession, and Billy is watching him with a dark, sharp expression that makes Steve’s neck prickle in a different way than before.

He leans up and presses his mouth into Billy’s. The juxtaposition of the sandpaper scratch and the soft lips still catches him off guard, sends sweet little shivers down his spine. Billy is receptive immediately, tilting his head and opening his mouth so Steve can lap into it greedily, hand coming up into Steve’s hair.

Steve brings his hands to the leather belt Billy definitely doesn’t need to keep his pants up. Billy watches him, transfixed. He’s still holding that cigarette, the ash building up at the tip. Normally, Steve would be a little worried about the ash getting all over his mother’s furniture. Right now, he can’t bring himself to care very much.

“Jesus, Harrington,” Billy breathes as Steve’s trembling fingers work down his zipper. Steve wishes he would say his name, but he doesn’t want to ruin the moment.

But before he begins, he pauses.

“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” he admits.

Billy gives a little breathless laugh, and it’s actually comforting.

“Can’t imagine that mouth of yours will disappoint.”

Steve flushes with pleasure, reassured. He yanks down Billy’s jeans, yanks down the briefs he’s surprised to find, just enough to pull him free, and he releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. It’s heavy in his hand, thick and hot, and it’s so foreign to hold a dick that’s not his own, but not completely unfamiliar.

It’s not quite as big as Steve’s, but it’s _all_ girth. The thought of putting his mouth around is kind of terrifying. But he doesn’t overthink it. He tries to imagine what he likes girls to do, what he does to himself. He gives a few firm introductory strokes.

He glances at Billy, whose watching him with such intensity it makes Steve burn all over.

“Holy shit,” Billy’s voice sounds wrecked, breathy, beautiful. He’s gripping the armrests, breathing heavy above Steve. He looks good from this angle, Steve thinks, and his own dick gives a little kick, and he realizes for the first time that he’s completely hard.

Steve wets his lips, and leans down to wrap his mouth around it. He can feel Billy tense up beneath him.

He tastes like skin and sweat, and it’s a foreign feel in his mouth, taking up too much space and almost suffocating. As he tries to adjust to the sensation, experimenting with different techniques, he finds his jaw aches and his gag reflex threatens every time he takes too much of Billy. It’s uncomfortable in way Steve never foresaw, but he doesn’t really care, actually, doesn’t mind at all, especially when Billy groans and swears like _that_.

He has _some_ idea of what he’s doing, having been on the receiving end of these for a few years. He tries to mimic what he likes. He sucks hard, because girls are always too gentle, hollowing his cheeks as he traces the length of Billy with the ring of his lips and the flat of his tongue. It’s a little hard to breath and when he gags eyes water, but Billy mutters _oh fuck!_ and Steve’s dick throbs behind his zipper.

He pulls off to catch his breath and give his jaw a quick rest, and he looks up at Billy for the first time since he started. He’s flushed and balmy, his mouth lax, eyes dark and unfocused and so blue against the pink flush of his cheekbones. Steve feels a swell of pride that _he_ could do that to the almighty, beautiful Billy.

He tries to take Billy all the way down, wraps his hand around the base of it like girls usually do for him. He gags, pretty sure he’s making extremely embarrassing and demeaning sounds, but Billy is groaning and writhing in a way that makes Steve long to touch himself, but he doesn’t. He keeps working until his jaw kills, until he can feel the saliva gathering at his chin, until Billy’s hand is tight in the back of his hair, until Billy’s thrusting into his mouth a little even though Steve can tell he’s trying to hold back.

“I’m gonna come,” Billy warns.

Steve sort of forgot about that part, and he freezes for a split second, but keeps going. If Billy did it for him, he can do it too. He lets it spill down his throat, bitter and salty and kind of gross, but he doesn’t care because it’s Billy’s.

He pulls off, swallowing down the remnants of come and saliva, and he wipes the mess from his chin. He’s panting, his eyes still watering and nose running a little bit, but Steve doesn’t care, can’t keep his eyes off Billy, limp and radiant with ecstasy. He holds Steve’s gaze, then his heavy eyes flicker down to Steve’s jeans, and Steve realizes his hands are moving of their own volition. He frees himself from his buckle, suddenly _desperate_ to come.

Billy watches him for a moment, licking his lips, tracking the movements of Steve’s hand. And Steve finds it _so fucking hot_ , jerking off at Billy’s feet while he watches, like it’s a show just for him.

Billy sinks down onto the ground with him, even though there’s barely any room between Steve and the armchair. Billy straddles his thighs, takes Steve’s dick in his hand. He leans over to lick into Steve’s mouth, like he’s trying to lick his own come out of it, and that thought sends Steve crashing over the edge.

He recovers, comes back to earth and looks at Billy. They’re both panting on the floor, hands covered in Steve’s come, and Billy looks at him with something new. As if they’ve done something they can’t go back from, as if they’ve finally crossed that line they’ve been dancing behind for so long. Steve gets a feeling like homesickness, and he wants to kiss Billy but he doesn’t know if that’s okay. It seems silly, considering Steve’s come is all over Billy’s hand and Steve just swallowed Billy’s.

“How was I?”

Billy laughs, looking at Steve like he’s something. “Not bad, Harrington, not bad at all.” And Steve glows from the praise.

He finally notices the cigarette on the floor. Billy must have dropped it, but Steve never noticed—neither of them had. The ash has all disintegrated all over his mother’s white carpet, and Steve is positive it’s going to leave a stain.

“Shit, the carpet,” Steve says, motioning to the discarded cigarette.

Billy glances at the mess he made. “That’ll come out.”

“Ash? On _white_ carpet?”

“Yeah,” Billy shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Ever clean a carpet before?”

Steve just glares at him. Because like, _not really._

Billy grins. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll work my magic on your mom’s carpet.”

Steve tries not to smile at the pet name. It’s definitely tongue-in-cheek, but Steve can’t help feeling pleased. “Don’t say it like that, you sicko.”

“You’re the one who keeps bringing up your mom’s carpet. What am I supposed to say?”

They zip themselves back up, and wash their hands in the kitchen, and then, Billy instructs him to get the vacuum, dish soap, and some baking soda. When it’s all gathered, Steve watches Billy get on his knees and remove the stain. He sucks up the remaining ash with the vacuum, and then begins scrubbing the carpet with a damp cloth and dish detergent. Steve is taken aback by the uncharacteristic domesticity—in his mind, he can’t even imagine Billy washing a dish, let alone scrubbing a carpet.

Finally, spreads some baking soda over it, and gets to his feet.

“Leave that for a few hours, and it’ll be good as new.”

Steve eyes him. “You clean carpets often?”

Billy winks. “Just your mom’s.”

“I hate you.” Steve brings the detergent and the baking soda back to the kitchen. He can feel Billy behind him, and the energy is shifting. He can almost feel Billy’s restlessness—or maybe it’s just his own.

“You don’t have to rush off,” Steve says uncertainly. “I mean, unless you have somewhere to be. But you can stay and just like, hang—if you want.”

He gets the sense that Billy is trying to read him. He looks like he’s actually considering it. For a moment, Steve is almost sure he’s going to say no, and feels stupid for even asking.

“I’ve got some weed,” Steve adds.

Billy gives him a measuring look, but he finally nods. “Yeah, alright. I can stick around.”

So Billy stays, and they smoke pot in Steve’s living room. The rush of having Billy so close is still coursing through him, the taste of Billy still heavy on his tongue. His fingers betray his nerves as he works with the rolling paper.

“You wanna roll this time?” Steve asks. It occurs to him that he’s never actually seen Billy roll a joint.

Billy lounges on the couch, feet up on the coffee table. The soles of his white socks are stained brown from wear, and the nub of a toe peaks out. Steve is inexplicably enthralled.

“I like when you do it, princess” Billy says, with the provocative charm of a secret confession.

Steve snorts as his heart flutters. It’s not that he’s not used to Billy flirting with him—but now it has a whole new meaning, a whole new implication. It’s _real,_ not just something Billy does to get under Steve’s skin. It’s hard to take.

“I bet you can’t even roll.”

Billy folds. “Fine, give it here.” He sits up, and Steve passes him the paper. Billy works the paper well, packs a tight joint with little spill and a snug filter. Steve is impressed, and also a little disappointed that he can’t make fun of Billy.

“Wow, you _can_ roll.”

Billy flashes his teeth. “You’re not the only one full of surprises.”

_I’ll say_ , Steve thinks.

Billy produces his Zippo and lights up. They pass it back and forth silently, exchanging quiet, fleeting looks. Billy’s eyes are blue and smoldering as he wraps his lips around the tip, and it’s too much but Steve can’t look away.

The mundane act of sharing a joint, which Steve has done with countless others, had never struck Steve as being intimate, until he did it with Billy. _Everything_ feels too intimate with Billy. It feels amplified now, borderline _sensual_. Their fingers brush, and the contact almost jolts him like electricity, remembering what Billy’s skin really felt like, the private skin only few got to touch. He tastes Billy’s mouth on the end of the cigarette, and now he knows what the real thing tastes like.

After a puff, Billy moves off the couch and begins to wander lazily around the living room, looking around as if he were in a museum. Steve lies back on the couch, watching Billy poke around at the mantelpiece and the bookshelf. He’s unguarded, curious, relaxed, and it may be small but it’s like a quiet little part of Billy that Steve feels lucky to see.

Billy laughs at the books he finds on the bookshelf. It’s mostly cookbooks and self-help, with a scattered travel guide. Billy slips one out of the shelf.

“ _Women Who Love Too Much,”_ Billy reads. “Your mom seriously reads this kinda shit?”

Steve scoffs, a little embarrassed. “Mom loves that shit. She says it’s like, empowering.”

Billy replaces the book, and turns to give Steve a funny look. “How the fuck are your parents _still_ on vacation? Who the fuck goes on a _five month long vacation_ , Harrington? How’s that shit even possible?”

Steve shrugs self-consciously. “Mom doesn’t really work—she used to be a consultant at the bank, but she sort of retired, I guess. And my dad, well he can basically do whatever he wants. I’m pretty sure most of his job is just approving shit—I mean I don’t actually even _know_ what he does—but most of it, he can do over the phone.”

He hopes his voice doesn’t betray his bitterness. He knows that compared to Billy, his parents are pretty good. He knows that neither of his parents would ever kick him out, especially not in the middle of the winter while inadequately dressed. Hell, at least he still _has_ both parents. Compared to Billy, Steve’s family life is pretty damn good.

Billy saunters over to take the joint from Steve.

“Your mom is retired already?”

“My parents are old,” Steve says. “Mom had me when she was like, thirty-six.”

Billy nods thoughtfully. “My mom was seventeen.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Neil knocked her up by accident. I was born three months after they got married.” Billy sits beside Steve on the couch. “Neil was twenty-four. Fuckin’ creep.”

Something aabout that doesn’t sit right with Steve. He shifts uncomfortably. “She was so young.”

“Yeah. She was the Ashley Fontaine of her school,” Billy quips.

Steve is grateful for the joke, for the chance to escape the subject, even if he can hear the bitterness in Billy’s voice. “Yeah, poor Ashley.”

“Whatever,” Billy dismisses. “She was probably stoked. Not like she’ll be doing anything else with her life anyway.”

“You don’t know that,” Steve says.

Billy laughs. “She would have popped one after high school. That’s the thing to do around here, isn’t it?”

Steve can’t argue with that, because it’s true. That _is_ the thing to do in Hawkins. After high school, some kids move away to go to college, and some kids settle into a good job straight out of school, buy a house and start a family before their twentieth birthdays. Steve has never given much though to what he actually wants for his future, but he’d assumed his life would follow something along those lines; college, maybe, or a decent job at his father’s bank, settling down with a girl like Nancy, having two or three kids after a few years of marital bliss.

But Steve isn’t going to college. He sent applications to three different schools, and all sent back rejection letters. He hasn’t told his parents yet—he wouldn’t dream of ruining their ‘vacation’. So, he’s got a summer of working at the bank under his father. Steve’s never been too bad at math, but he can only imagine the long days at a quiet desk, his half-assed performance at filling out paper work and counting numbers, the gritting smiles of his coworkers who won’t dare say a word to _Mr. Harrington’s son_.

Part of him can’t wait for high school to finally be over. But another part dreads for the end to come.

He says as much.

“I just know working at my dad’s bank is going to suck,” he says, when Billy gives him a strange look.

“Fuck working at daddy’s bank,” Billy snarls. “Do whatever you _want_. You got the money.”

“Yeah, I guess” Steve says, and doesn’t admit that he didn’t get into any colleges. Billy doesn’t need to know. “What will you do?”

Billy shrugs, smiles lazily over at him. He looks relaxed, and it suits him. “I’ll do whatever I feel like.”

Billy’s grin is contagious, and it takes a moment for Steve to realize that they’re just smiling at each other, like high idiots. Then, something falls over Billy’s face, and the way he’s watching Steve now makes him burn all the way down his body. He's too high to look away.

Billy sits up, stilling grinning. He scoots a little closer, arm coming to rest on the back of the couch behind Steve’s shoulders.

“I’ll do _you_ ,” he says, and it’s such a cheesy line but Steve feels it in his pants, anyway.

“Good one,” Steve says, but it comes out sounding a little more shaky than he meant it, and Billy is crowding into him, that _look_ still on his face, like Steve is something to be devoured and Billy is _hungry_. Even though Steve only came less than two hours ago, he can feel it all rushing down.

When Billy leans in to kiss him, Steve can’t remember how to breath. He follows the motions, too blinded by excitement to take any kind of lead. He lets Billy devour his mouth, lets his tongue swipe past his teeth.

Billy’s hand is pressing at Steve’s chest, pressing him down into the couch. Billy straddles him. Steve can feel he’s already getting hard.

He basically just came, but an urgent surge of arousal grips him, makes him grip Billy’s ass hard, pull him greedily closer. Billy responds in turn, biting Steve’s lip and grinding his hips _down_ so good that Steve lets out a small sound. Billy tastes like stale pot, and Steve is sure his own mouth tastes like come. But Billy doesn’t seem to mind, licking into Steve’s mouth like he loves the taste.

It’s uncomfortable on the couch, not quite enough room for two grown boys. Billy’s knee is sort of sinking behind the cushions, and Steve is only half on the couch. But he doesn’t care, not when Billy’s hard-on presses into Steve’s _like that_ , not when he’s gripping Billy’s ass like he means it, like he _wants it_ , and not when Billy’s mouth is hot and wet and sucking sharply on his neck, on the brink of too painful. The constraint of his jeans borders on painful, too, but it almost makes it better, gives the clumsy rut of their hips a desperate edge. Maybe it’s because he’s high, but he feels so lost in the sensations he can’t imagine it ending.

Billy bites on his neck at the same time he gyrates down _just so_ and Steve lets out a loud whine, one he might have been embarrassed about had he not been so caught up in euphoria. Billy makes to pull away, and Steve catches sight of the flushed, far-away look on Billy’s face. Steve yanks him back down by the collar, tilts his head to slot their mouths together.

Steve’s hips begin to stutter, and he gasps into Billy’s open mouth. Billy pulls back, eyes scanning Steve’s face with something like pride.

“You gonna come in your pants for me, Pretty Boy?” Billy’s voice catches, and it’s a low, gravelly thing that curls down Steve’s spine. He sighs, throwing his head back to expose his throat, hand still squeezing Billy’s ass and pressing him down into Steve.

Billy licks a wet stripe up Steve’s throat, scrapes his teeth along the tender skin.

He is going to come. It’s building inside him as his thrusts grow more erratic, and he doesn’t give a fuck that he’s about to come in his pants like a goddamn twelve year old.

He comes, with Billy sucking at the soft skin over his collarbone, shuttering as he empties whatever he has left into his underwear.

It’s a gross, unfamiliar feeling to have his pants wet like this. He’s panting, coming down and opening his eyes to look at Billy hovering over him, eyes heavy and intense

His smile is a little lopsided when he chuckles, a low, velvety sound. “That was fuckin’ hot.”

“I can’t believe that just happened,” Steve mutters, but he can’t bring himself to be embarrassed, really, when Billy is looking at him like that.

That’s when he realizes Billy hasn’t come yet, and the front of his jeans look uncomfortably tight. So Steve reaches to undo his belt for the second time that day, spits into his palm and wraps his hand around Billy’s cock.

Billy’s gaze flicks back and forth between Steve’s hand and his face. His face goes slack, eyes hazy, face flushed, his mouth dropping to form an o and Steve wants to taste the little peak of gleaming tongue.

Billy doesn’t last long, finishes with a desperate grunt all over Steve’s shirt.

They stay like that for a few moments, Billy on top of him, panting into each other’s mouths, his underwear _and_ shirt a mess.

Finally, Billy crawls off of him. Steve sort of misses the warm weight on top of him, and without it, the dampness in his clothes feels suddenly cold and uncomfortable.

“I feel disgusting,” Steve remarks, slowly sitting up and looking down at himself.

Billy looks him up and down, admiring his own work. His gaze lingers on the wet patch in Steve’s pants, and Billy looks _pleased_.

“ _Good_ ,” he says, like he’s proud of it. His tongue plays over his teeth, and if Steve didn’t know any better, he would think Billy was getting turned on _again_.

Billy stands, adjusting his belt. “I gotta get going, though. Gotta date at seven.”

At that, Steve’s stomach lurches. “Oh,” he says, unsure how to feel. Suddenly he feels much too vulnerable in his wet pants and shirt, and he really wants to go get cleaned up. “With who?” He asks conversationally.

“Allison Reed.”

Steve nods, and he isn’t sure what to say. “Cool… She’s hot.”

“Yeah,” Billy says, without much enthusiasm.

Steve stands awkwardly as Billy slips into his jacket, grabbing his lighter off the table.

“Well, have fun,” he says, lamely.

“You want a ride back to your car?”

“Huh?”

“I drove you here,” Billy reminds him.

“Right! Just let me put on—“

“No,” Billy says. Steve frowns, but Billy is grinning lasciviously. “Leave them on.”

“ _Dude_ ,” Steve complains.

Billy leans in close, smile all sharp. Steve knows he’s going to obey before Billy speaks. “C’mon, Pretty Boy, do it for _me_.”

“You’re a freak, Hargrove.” Steve’s face burns with shame, but he heads towards the front door, shirt and pants full of come.

They drive with the windows rolled down, because it’s actually a nice evening. Billy plays his music a little bit lower than before, and he taps his steering wheel with two fingers as he sings along to the chorus. Steve isn’t sure if it’s the weather, the weed, the pre-coital glow, or Billy, but he feels uncharacteristically at ease. The wind in the windows is cool against his flushed face, and even though Billy’s music is a bunch of noise and his underwear is heavy with cold jizz, Steve feels pretty damn good. When they get to the school parking lot, Steve doesn’t want to get out.

Billy is looking out the windshield. His expression has become solemn.

“Listen,” he says, and Steve can tell by the sudden gravity of his voice what he’s going to say. “We gotta get one thing clear, Harrington.”

“This _thing_ ,” Billy motions between the two of them. “Nobody can know about it.” Billy pins him with a grave look. “Do you understand? _No one_.”

“Yeah, asshole, I know.” He moves as if to get out of the car, but Billy catches his wrist. It’s hard enough to bruise.

“I mean it,” he says, his face hard and sincere. It’s unnerving. “If you tell anyone, Harrington, I’ll kill you.”

Steve has no doubt that he’s serious. An image of last November flashes in his mind, the first time he’s thought about it in ages. The reaction is visceral, and he shakes off Billy’s hand. Billy lets him.

“Yeah, I get it. As if I would ever _want_ to tell anybody.”

Billy grins at him then, all easy sparkle and charm, as if he didn’t just threaten to kill Steve, and reaches over to grab Steve by the chin. “Atta boy, Harrington.”

Steve hates how much he actually likes that. “Fuck you,” he says, pulling away from Billy’s grip.

Billy reaches over to cover his hand over Steve’s damp crotch and he leans in to lick right into Steve’s mouth, barely even a kiss, as if he just wanted a taste for the road. Steve’s dick is spent and sore, but it gives a little kick against Billy’s palm.

“Maybe some other time.”

Steve scoffs like the idea is _ridiculous_. The idea of Billy and Steve fucking is—well, Steve isn’t sure he can think about it right now. Steve climbs out of the car before he can get hard again. He leans down to peer into the window.

“Have fun on your date, asshole.”

“I’ll see you later, Harrington.” Billy smiles, crystalline eyes glimmering in the evening sun. This time, it sounds like a promise.


End file.
